Dear Golf,
I love you.
I love the complexity within your details and your simpleness at its core. A club and a ball. On first look, you appear to be nothing more than a convoluted expansion to a popular 13th century French game. But you’re so much more. The specification behind every swing. The way a simple beachside breeze could impact an entire round. The assertive, inconceivable belief that I can hit a perfect shot at anytime.
I love you not.
You drain me and take so much away from me. Minutes, hours and days after I’m finished with you, I’ll still be thinking about what you’ve done to me. Your unrelenting conditions punish me time and time again. Shank, after missed putt, after lost ball, I can never seem to get it just right. Your unfathomable inability to be conquered is as confusing to me as a claw game is to a child. I play you to have fun, but you almost always leave me unsatisfied.
I love you.
Despite the many lows that come with playing you, the highs are just as sweet. I struggle to find the right words to describe the rush of adrenaline you give me after sinking a 40-footer. Or that feeling of accomplishment, twirling your mighty weapon as I watch a white, rubber sphere glide perfectly through the air. Those that have never done it won’t understand, but the feeling is real. It’s unique. It’s this pursuit that keeps the 60-year-old husband and the 14-year-old beginner coming back.
I love you not.
Every time I come back, my wallet screams in agony. Your demanding equipment, and even more demanding prices, often make me cringe. I could have probably bought a 2010 Ford Mustang with the amount of money I’ve spent on you. Your poor ability to be accessible to the masses has always been your biggest flaw. I can’t play you unless I pay for you. And many times, I either can’t afford you or simply don’t want to pay for you.
I love you.
But while the world was stagnant and confined to their homes, you were there for me. You kept me company and gave me a purpose. When we feared leaving the house to go to a grocery store or for a haircut, at least we found comfort on the golf course. Your open fields framed with trees, with long stretching fairways, extending for miles on appearance, were like a warm bed to a weary traveler. In a time that made everyone's home double as an office, classroom, gym or workplace, you became my home.
I love you not.
When I was younger and first started playing sports, you were one of my favorites. I remember the summer days in camp filled with lemonade, driving ranges and medals, but you never seemed to love me back the same way. I wanted to keep playing you, but you were just too much. My baseball coach would scream at me because you were ruining my swing, and my parents would scream at each other because of the strain you’d continue causing. You brought me so much joy, but I knew our relationship would never work. And so, we broke up.
I love you.
Now, here we are. Ten-odd years later, and I still look at you like the wide-eyed, little kid at camp. I never got over you. Every time I swing a club, I’m transported back in time to when we first met. Your mystifying allure is as everlasting as a candy cane’s stripes, with your spell constraining me to long for more when I know you’re impossible to master. You’re perfectly imperfect. I will never be content with you, but I’ll also never leave you. However many times I may say I’m done, it’ll never be true. Because you always find a way to keep me coming back.
And that's why I love you.
Love,
Victor
