One of the principal benefits of the game of golf lies in its
capacity to allow anger to be vented as a social norm. As one
becomes more deeply familiar with the game, certain traits of the
personality will emerge which have been securely locked away for
the convenience not only of others, but for one's self.
Certainly, a person does not like having a reputation as being a
hothead or boor and so anger is often kept down when it might
more happily be released.
A good day on the golf course is a delightful extravaganza of
anger: clubs will be flying and twirling in the air and aldermen
will be howling, lawyers weeping, salesmen screaming, merchants
moaning, loggers lamenting, carpenters crying, treeplanters
tirading and poets sighing. The din on a good day drives birds to
quieter climes. A golf course on a good day becomes a perfectly
acceptable nuthouse.
I doubt I shall ever give up the memory of the day I passed my
novitiate and gave up forever my cheerfulness and steady temper
for an outburst of rage, immediately initiating me into the
company of the realized golfer.
My game had started well. I bogied the first hole, birdied (o
beautiful birdie!) the second, got a par on the third and another
bogie at the fourth. I was, of course, playing well over my head
but the magic enticement of it all erased any alarm of the
inevitable dangers that lay ahead.
My drive to a par three hole ninety-five yards distant was
accurate and my ball landed on the fringe. The greed of my dreams
of scoring another par danced seductively before me as I strode,
with extra zip in my foot, down the fairway towards the green.
When my turn to play came, I decided to try a pitch and run and
lay the ball up near the cup for an easy putt and a par. I took
out my 5-iron and made a couple of practice whiffs and stepped up
to the ball. I gazed at it until it said in its small, dimpled
voice: 'Hit me.' So I did.
When I looked up I saw my ball hop onto the green and then it
began to die. In alarm and panic I hollered: 'Roll you fuckin'
slut, roll!' The ball stopped well out of the range of my putting
competence. 'You cocksucker!' I sneered at the idle globe of
white smugly nestled on the green.
My partners smiled approvingly at the sheer intensity of my
outburst but before I could savour their adulation my eye caught
sight of two old ladies standing by their carts at the 6-th tee
with clearly shocked looks on their faces.
Summoning up whatever reserve of charm I had, I called over:
