Golf: A lesson on commitment (first draft)

The smell of freshly cut grass and the sound of golf balls churning within the ball dispenser machine; these are all familiar sensations from long ago, brought again to the forefront of my mind after so many years. This was not really a happy place, nor was it a sad place. It was the place that I have often ended up after being awoken at 7 in the morning on weekends when I didn’t have school. You may ask, who has classes during weekends, how is that even possible? But I did. Life as a child with Asian parents is never carefree, and when one finds oneself far from one’s place of origin, it is paradoxically even less so. I never regretted my childhood or lack of one; it is what gives me the discipline to excel, to be good at time management, at organizing my time so I can have a life outside of the rigidity of the activities planned for me. For Asian parents, however, mine were probably more on the lax side. 

 Golf for me was never a leisure activity. Like memorizing times tables, sketching, playing piano, even ballet when I was only 3, it was supposed to be serious, and I was supposed to do well. It is sort of ridiculous, thinking of the time I had spent reading books on golf given by my father; books that were supposed to improve my swing and consequently my game. I never really got that far. The driving range was a place of dread, but it was also a refuge from the horrifying, fast-paced world of the green outside, a world of flawless swings about which I knew very little.

After all these years of suppressing memories of this place, I was strangely, back, and voluntarily so. The two levels of the building are familiar to me, as are the barriers that divide each player cubicle from the next. I think of all the times I had come here when I was much, much younger and wondered why I had consented to do so. There was always the pressure, both culturally and self-induced, to meet parental expectations, but deep down, it was also a way to bond with my father, even if it means sometimes taking harsh criticism. 

Hitting the ball is an exercise in commitment. You have to be committed from the second you put your club by the tee and begin the upward arc. The downward arc is necessarily the most important as it directly affects the moment of impact and the consequent shot. You have to want to hit the ball, and to do so you have to keep your eyes on the present of where the ball is and not where you want it to go. Most significantly of all, you have to not be afraid of not being able to hit it. This thought occurred to me today as I kept missing the ball during my warm-ups. I was able to tell whether or not a shot would be executed well every time I begin my downswing, but I was never able to stop myself in time before the final impact. Every time I pull back, whether in fear of the reality of the ball itself or some other factor, I end up “topping”, otherwise known as hitting the top of the ball, causing it to bounce forward perhaps 20-30 yards if you are lucky, a couple feet if you are not. “Topping” seems to be the only mistake I made today, but the one I made with absolute consistency. It is also, in my opinion, the mistake that best shows a person’s commitment. “Topping” can occur for a variety of reasons, but for me, the most likely one stems from the moment when I pull back in the middle of my swing. 

I found myself missing my father somehow, wishing he was there to correct my swing, the way I stand. It was amazing how much I had remembered; all the things that came naturally: how to hold the club, how a swing is supposed to be executed, how to speak the language of the game. I wanted him to be there to witness the few times I had managed a perfect swing, demonstrated perfect commitment by hitting the ball straight, high, and far. I know I have the potential to do well, I just have to keep telling myself that, and stop selling myself short by saying that I couldn’t. Unlike other amateur golfers who can still manage 100-150 yards with lousy swings; well I just can’t. If I don’t fully commit myself and get that perfect swing, my shots go nowhere. They may reach about 50-75 yards if I’m lucky, or merely roll over the ledge to the bemusement of any onlookers. This is, perhaps, a lesson in life as well. A lesson on commitment.