To golf or not to golf, that’s not a question
I let go with a hard drive, propelling the golf ball a mere 75 metres, slicing a bit to the right, as the other golfers attacked the golfballpickerupper vehicle – a modified ATV driven by a combat-hardened kid. Looking a bit like the driver of the Popemobile, he crawled by under an artillery barrage of golf balls pinging off his protective plexiglass shell as the rest whizzed by.
Teeing off, I ready my aim and swung. Immediately, my right hand looked as if someone ripped the skin and muscle off my hand and I screamed in amazement and then I screamed again in pain. Tsk-tsking me, veteran golfers continued swinging, aiming at the moving golfballpickerupper, all smirking at my naiveté and agony. My buddy, who looked a bit more concerned than the others, offered a few tips and his construction gloves. After the redness cleared from my brain, I gamely teed off again and managed a few hundred yarders. Amazingly, I was actually hitting the ball on the first swings and my smile returned to my face.
Golf, the majestic game of Scots and hockey players on losing teams. The game even midgets could play, a pastime that precedes Facebook by a few centuries or so. A game that legitimately announced to your better half that therapeutic actions of walking, hitting and drinking cold beers afterwards made you a better person. And that peace and complacency at home is the by-product that far outweighs bowling with the buddies and looking ridiculous.
Besides personally endorsing someone else’s already rich sports franchise by buying their caps, posters and jerseys, golf remains a sport of rather personal expense. Aside from paying for lessons, it remains pretty cheap as far as the wardrobe is concerned. The clubs, though, are pretty damn expensive. But they can last for years, not accounting for the occasional fit of golf rage when you throw your favourite putter in the pond, the clubs can actually appreciate in value over the decades. Of course, there is the privilege of getting a membership at a golf resort, but, if you have to complain about the cost, then play something else, somewhere else.
Yes, golf is a gentleman’s game, played with the ferocity of a wolf in lamb’s clothing and the cheekiness of the Scot’s kilt, making anyone worthy of the game. After all, it’s one against all the other ones in this game. A game that if played properly and professionally, can take you around the globe. In Great Whale River, a slightly underused golf course is quietly waiting for hockey gods or other sports greats to show up and endorse their favourite choice for charities. I for one would like to see a tee off between Bobby Orr and Carey Price on the Whapmagoostui greens.
In the case of Great Whale, the incredible roughness of the terrain makes this nine-hole course hard for guys like Tiger Woods, who depend on smooth-cut grass to make the final putt. It’s tundra moss and blackberry bushes all the way with some artificial (plywood) green around the holes that make it nearly impossible to make par. In Scotland, at least there are the pesky briars to contend with and steep cliffs to avoid that make GWR a close contender for roughness. The only way to go under par here is to make a hole-in-one.
I swing again, my club missing the little ball and my back goes out a bit. The smart smack of club hitting ball and satisfaction of seeing a white orb disappear is yet to be felt by me. I may not be a tiger, but swinging is in my nature.