Gravitating to Golf

I needed to find a new hobby.

One that relieved stress. One that got me outdoors. One where I could relax while keeping my brain active. One that got me moving. One that I could do with others or in total solitude.

Needless to say, I was lucky to find golf — a sport only as serious as you make it. Few things are as peaceful as the dewy green grass in stark opposition to glistening water and sandy white bunkers. The landscape resembles something natural, but in it's most idealized, artificial form. In a golf course, man showcases his control over every aspect of nature ("it's beautiful, but think about how much prettier I can make it"). It is the ultimate triumph and the ultimate tribute.

But sheesh, don't I sound pretentious?

I came to golf for the same reason most people come to Jesus: pressure from their family. Well, it wasn't direct pressure, but it sure felt like a sign from God. My grandparents were in the process of moving away to Alabama and, as is tradition, holding a garage sale. In the back of the shed, I noticed a bag of old golf clubs — either from the 70s or from 2005 (it's hard to tell with golf clubs) — with a sticker marked "$20."

I let my grandpa know that if he didn't sell it, I would gladly take it off his hands. I'd been to the driving range a few times with my dad when I was 12, and I watched Tiger every weekend growing up. It only seemed right to learn how to play before I joined the PGA Tour.

He said, "Take it. It's yours. I hope you have as much fun with them as I did."

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My father and I snap a quick selfie at Westwood Golf Course
during my first ever round of golf. At least I had the
outfit down.

My first time at the course came shortly after, and lord was I nervous. I had gone to the driving range *once* and had watched about a thousand YouTube videos, so my swing was just a few tweaks away from looking like Arnold Palmer's. Lucky for me, my dad paid for the cart, so when every drive I hit sliced into the woods, we didn't have to trudge back and forth to find them.

I really caught a break when I hit it into the water, since that meant I didn't have to trek through the forest to find my 50 cent Top-Flite ball.

So it goes without saying that I wasn't Tiger on my first try... but on that fifth green... oh my god, that fifth green...

My ball is 20 feet from the cup. A pitching wedge rests in my right hand as I tighten the glove on my left. I survey the slope of the green.

It breaks ever so slightly downhill to the left. There's nothing you can do with that information right now, but just so you know.

I take two quick practice swings and a deep breath.

Remember "Secrets of the Short Game" with Phil Mickelson. Accelerate and follow through.

Now in position, my mind is racing. Tiger's chip-in on 17 in 2001 plays back in my head. My chin slides into place directly above the ball. I quiet my mind, and I swing true.

Next thing I know, I'm chest bumping my dad on our way back to the cart. I chipped it in! He had never done that in all his years of playing golf, and I did it in my first round.

I was hooked. As hooked as my next shot, which sent that lucky ball straight into the depths of the lake. Oh well.