Most athletes call it choking. Golfers call it throwing up. In that case, I hurled, I spewed. Wayne and Garth would have had a field day with my performance in this year's Tufts golf team tryouts (yes, Tufts has a golf team).
I got this hair-brained scheme to try out for the team last year when I covered golf for the Daily. I figured that with a little bit of practice, a little bit of luck, and a few major injuries to returning players, I could get myself a number of free rounds this year. The way I had it calculated, if the coach took eight guys, I could snag a few pars, maybe sneak in a birdie or two, and waltz my way into free Titleist heaven.
Neville Chamberlain wasn't more wrong when he declared peace in our time.
I had more hot dogs (two) than birdies (none), and the pars came about as frequently as Santa Claus.
I had practiced, but couldn't garner an ounce of luck (or an effective swing) during the two days of tryouts. Plus, everyone came back from last year's team in perfect health.
It started out with a half-hour van ride where I got to listen to everyone reminisce about their days on the high school golf team, which courses they had played, and what score they planned on shooting that day.
Meanwhile, I got to reflect on my own highlight reel of a high school athletic career. I barely missed varsity tennis and got cut from the high school basketball team, and didn't even think about going out for the golf team.
While everyone was talking about scores in the 70's (I've never broken 82) I was just concerned with not losing too many balls because I had forgotten to buy new ones and only had three left. I didn't come close to the 70's, unless you stopped keeping score after 15 holes. Oh yeah, I also failed on that no losing balls thing, but I'll get back to that.
Everyone I've talked to that has played competitive golf told me about the pressure. They both said that you can't really imagine it until you step up to the first tee, with total strangers watching you.
I didn't take them seriously. I thought golf was golf. It's a pretty simple sport. You hit a little white ball with a very big club, go find it, then hit it again. Needless to say, I wasn't worried about the pressure. I've played competitive sports before. Sure, I failed at tennis, but there's a big difference between golf and tennis. Tennis is an elitist, mindless game. Golf is totally different.
So I stepped up to the tee without a fear, and then it hit me. It wasn't pee-in-your pants scary, but it was enough to screw with an already less than admirable golf swing. Standing over the ball, all kinds of thoughts came to my head. Things like, "please God, don't let me top one 20 yards and have to hit again in front of these people" and, "oh Lord, if you let this ball land on the fairway, I will definitely start coming to Friday night services."
Somehow I was able to compose myself and put a sweet swing on a 3 iron, landing it 200 yards down the fairway. Right then I had the eye of the tiger. I figured if anything would go wrong, it would have happened on the first tee, and I had passed that test. Unfortunately, it went downhill from there. It was like a drivers' ed student who gets by the parallel parking section, but can't signal for a left turn.
Little did I know, but in the next four-and-a-half hours, I wouldn't put another sweet swing on the ball. I managed a par on the first, and stepped up to the second tee still juiced up from my tee shot. After a sliced drive, a topped five wood, a bladed iron, and a chunked pitch, I had hit for the golfing cycle and double bogied the second hole.
On the third hole, a pretty simple par three, the wheels not only came off, but the engine fell out, I ran out of fuel and the exhaust pipe clogged up. I hit a four iron off the tee further right than Pat Buchanan. It went past the fairway, past the green, past the high trees set up to block normal slices, and into a field where school children were playing. I had to hit another off the tee, because the damn rule book says that you can't hop into recess to play your ball, but overcompensated so much that I nubbed a ball about 40 yards forwards and to the left. Let's just say my sister could have thrown it further with her weak hand.
I knew it was going to be a long day, but I finished with a respectable 89. Needing to drop about four strokes on the second day, I forgot to pray to a higher being before teeing off, and moved four strokes the other way, for a not as respectable 93. The one highlight came on the last hole when I hooked a drive that almost left some people with a permanent Titleist 3 tattoo. I didn't see it, but I was told they flipped me off.
So I didn't make the team, but I didn't finish last, and I got to spend about nine hours on the golf course on Tufts' money, and on the golf course, when things are going slow, you get to thinking. I started thinking about the irony of golf. About how if you play well, you have no one to praise except for yourself. No one passed you the ball or set up your goal. But if you play like me, the opposite of well, you have no one to blame except yourself. Golf is one of the only sports where at the end of the day, all you can do is look in the mirror.
So, now that I have a full year to get ready for next season's tryouts, I know that my only problems were my faulty clubs, a chipped ball, wet conditions, and uneven greens.
