Originally published in my column at worldgolf.com – some poetry for hackers.
The air is crisp. The wind is still. The golf clubs are shiny.
I break the silence with a clean thwack and watch as my ball flies with purpose across a bright blue sky that seems to serve only as a canvas for my stroke.
The ball bounces and rolls through the dew, smudging the immaculate fairway before it settles in the middle. I trace its line with my steps as if following a shooting star. My feet press my signature into the grass.
I choose my next brush and again interrupt the quiet air to apply another stroke. For a moment the line is lost as the thin application takes an imaginative path.
From an unplanned perspective I mask out the grainy shoreline that guards my focal point about 40 yards away. I hear encouragement in the waking song of a bird. This is my specialty. This is my bread and butter. I scrape a chunk of butter and hear the songbird laugh.
Five feet closer than I was, the hue increases in intensity. My focus gets so sharp that it blurs, and I nearly take the skull right off the ball with my passionate flair. The line I produce has such speed that it threatens to leave the floating canvas, but it comes to rest near a dried red border.
My golf ball looks comfortable, resting its sore head in a soft depression as it tries to hide among the long reeds and clumps of soil. A roadrunner stares into my soul from the edge of the tulles. From this angle, I am offered another pristine beach that demands to be left unsullied.
Shunning artistic convention, I defiantly pollute the beach with my next stroke. I look back toward the tulles and see the arrogant roadrunner walking slowly away.
These sands are so beautiful they really shouldn’t be so close to the green. As I step into my new medium, I notice its morning texture and decide on my stroke technique. Two strokes later, I smooth the sand’s surface, trying to re-create the groundskeeper’s magnum opus, and ascend to the silky green palette, now splattered with my own gritty handiwork.
I admire the curves and slopes from all angles before going back to the deckled edge where my ball is perched. I imagine a 25-foot arch painted from my ball to the hole; I intend to glaze it with my next stroke. As I carefully apply it I am immediately aware that a lighter touch would have made a more appealing picture. I watch as its path exposes previously unseen slopes.
Appreciating the nuances I missed, I study the area again to prepare for a smooth, 10-foot brush stroke. My amateur eye is revealed as I again fail to connect the dots and my line ends inches from the hole.
I swiftly complete the connection.
As I walk toward the next frame in this outdoor museum, I tally my marks on the last and announce quietly to the ether my double-digit result:
10.
I must be imagining the mockingbird repeating it back to me again and again: 10, 10, 10.
To avoid a messy composition I try to suppress all the swing thoughts bubbling up as a result of that 10. Forget the golden sections. Forget the rule of thirds. Forget atmospheric perspective. Keep the focal point.
Another day of happily embracing the gestalt theory is underway.
June 15, 2013 at 7:08 am
I REALLY like THIS! Some of your best writing! You made a 10 sound poetic! Wish I could have done that with the 8 I made the other day!
June 15, 2013 at 2:28 pm
Thanks Joe!
June 18, 2013 at 10:32 am
This is great! Very creative.
June 26, 2013 at 5:25 pm
Lovely piece!
July 2, 2013 at 5:33 pm
For some reason, I can’t ever see Sergio Garcia getting this poetic over a 10. Maybe if he heard it from you though….Hmmmm Now There’s A Thought. Kepp up the great work. Love the blog. Steve
September 16, 2014 at 7:47 pm
This was written for me, Mr. Ten. I have had many of them which were inducement for 19 beers after.
February 18, 2015 at 1:27 am
You are so descriptive and nice in your article! )
I had my golf courses in san diego and had written best of my memories in my blog as well!
People may find art in everything !
April 19, 2015 at 9:53 am
I love this!!! Nice description! I never thought of golf in the is way before.