Nightmare on the Back Nine
The dream is always the same. I’m on the golf course, on a random tee box, somewhere in the middle of the round. I can’t identify my playing partners, but they seem to be friends. Each of the three hits their shot and moves to the side.
It’s my turn. I peg my tee in the grass. It topples over. I try again. It falls. I attempt the simple task with a different, longer tee. Same result. This happens several times. There is no wind, and I’m not encumbered by booze or other intoxicants. I just can’t get the ball to stay put.
Maybe it’s the club. I slide my driver back into the bag, but it falls down. Picking it up, I fumble with some irons but eventually settle for my 3-wood. I return to the teeing ground where my friends have their bags slung over their shoulders, shuffling their feet, and trading inquisitive, impatient glances.
There is nothing complicated about this shot - it is as straightforward as they come. But I never actually swing the club. I see the ball. I address the ball. I have every intent to hit the ball, but my arms are frozen. I try to turn my shoulders. Nothing happens.
The group ahead of us shrinks in the distance, and a log jam forms behind us. Etiquette now trumping indulgence, the balance of my foursome moves slowly forward in the direction of their drives. They say nothing and take a wide berth in the unlikely case I reach the fairway.
The scenario—me, alone on the tee, unable to move—continues, then dissolves inconclusively into blackness. There are no monsters or weapons or evil men chasing me – just the horrifying ordeal of being left behind, frozen and impotent.
Some people might interpret this vision with the knee-jerk response, “Oh, your nightmare is not being able to play golf? Your life is so difficult!” Such an assessment, of course, would miss the point on a couple of levels. First, sucking at golf is not my nightmare. That’s my stark, waking reality. Second, even though every round offers countless ways to be frustrated and humiliated, I think the dream has little to do with the sport itself.
To find the underlying meaning, I Googled “Dreams about being stuck,” which offered few answers but reminded me that people who write about our slumbering minds on the internet also weave 99% of the dream-catchers for sale in Santa Fe. So I decided to do my own analysis.
My nightmare, which—it bears pointing out—I did not choose, is being trapped in some existential paralysis and not being able to move forward or being necessarily forgotten because I couldn’t keep up. Or being too stubborn or dumb to let go of life’s Sisyphean tasks and change course.
Freud might ask, “Did your mother play golf and / or ever lock you in a broom closet?” To which I would answer, “No, and leave my mother out of this!” But giving psychoanalysis its due, I wonder to what degree being the 3rd boy and 5th out of six kids might have ingrained some fear of not being included by the older kids. Add to birth order issues the undeniable social pressure to achieve, and no wonder this kind of anxiety haunts my sleep.
Then there are the obvious overtones of death. Yes, it’s a little cliché, but at least my brain didn’t outfit the head pro in a hooded Peter Millar cloak and a scythe in the shape of a 1-iron.
Come to think of it, maybe the dream is about golf, or the sport as a metaphor for striving in life. Consider the role of agency in golf: a player endeavors to cause a small, dimpled sphere to travel a certain distance and direction across a field rife with obstacles and undulations. The more she plays, the more consistent the connection between her objective and her results, but there is always room for improvement.
Like Self-actualization—the teeny triangle at the top of Maslow’s Hierarchy—perfection in golf is never attained, only pursued. Shitty golfers like me keep playing not because we expect to achieve greatness but because the game offers fleeting glimpses of proficiency in which we cause the ball to fly the way we want it to fly. This temporary but transcendent alignment of intent and outcome lures us back to the course and, occasionally, even motivates us to practice.
No one is perfect, but persistence matters. In last week’s (British) Open Championship, Brian Harman smoked the rest of the field, winning by six strokes over the runners-up, but still carded three bogeys in Sunday’s final, rainy round. Of course, he also managed to grind out four birdies in that Liverpudlian deluge, demonstrating that victory is often more about tenacity than perfection.
In golf, as in life, you strive, and you fail. You make progress, then you fall back a little. You lose way more often than you win, but you keep playing because you love it, even when you suck. Hell isn’t chunking your 80-yard approach shot into the lake, though that will make you curse all you previously held as sacred. Hell is being locked out of the game and being unable to play, which will happen to all of us eventually.
The only thing within our power is to get in as many rounds as possible and do our best to go down swinging.
Carpe Diem.
IMPORTANT YET HIGHLY-SELF-PROMOTIONAL MESSAGE:
I am headlining comedy shows at these country clubs very soon:
Atlanta Athletic Club, 8/31
Marietta Country Club, 9/15
Richland Country Club (Nashville), 10/5
When shall we do a show at your club? Reply to this email and let’s chat.
