Loving (and Hating) Golf

Lang loves golf. He hates it, too. Mostly at the same time.

Golf seems simple: Swing the club, hit the ball. 

Credit: Thor Harland

Beyond that, brother, everything is up for grabs. Did I choose the correct club? Where do I stand in relation to the ball? Where are my feet pointing? Head down? Will I even connect with the ball? Will the ball go anywhere near where I’m aiming? Breathe. Am I ready? Do I swing? Now? How about now? OK, screw it, let’s swing!

This is what playing golf is like, at least inside my brain. Sometimes I hate it, sometimes I love it. Mostly at the same time.

The first time I played golf, at a post-college bachelor party weekend, I was hooked. Not only was I awful enough that I wanted to get better, but I was also somehow hit just enough good shots that I could envision a path toward improvement. 

Yet it wasn’t until I moved to Memphis almost a decade ago that the opportunity to genuinely advance my game presented itself. As a practical resident of Memphis, I understand this city has many varied financial needs. As a golfer who pays taxes in Memphis, I appreciate how Memphis invests heavily in its public courses, of which there are many.

But before I could enjoy golf, I needed to understand it. Though I harbored a fantasy that perhaps I’d be a natural through some sort of television osmosis, like Cole Trickle in Days of Thunder, I quickly realized this was not an option. While I was fair at golf—I could consistently shoot around 100—I didn’t really know what I was doing, or what I wasn’t doing. Is this the proper way to hold a club? Why did each tee shot hook violently to the right? How the heck do I get out of this sand? Everything was a mystery.

I started hanging out at the driving range, where I’d pop in my Airpods, listen to The Police and blindly plow through bucket after bucket of balls, hoping to stumble upon answers. One morning, I met an elderly gentleman who grabbed my driver and casually ripped a shot 225 yards down the middle. I immediately hired Donnie as my coach, and after a year of lessons in $50 increments (cash only), I’ve finally arrived at the point where I can stand over a ball and not have a million thoughts pinging through my head. These days, I dwell in the mid-80s, with the 70s just a few tantalizing strokes away.

Perhaps more importantly, through golf I found a community. I met a group of dads who are similarly obsessed, and we not only play every weekend, we text daily, about golf but also about all the parts of being a husband and a dad that only a dad and a husband can sympathize with. We understand that the older we get, the more impossible it becomes to carve out five hours of free time on a weekend, yet we persist. I’ve learned that real maturity is waking up early on the weekend because you want to, not because you have to.

That camaraderie is part of what makes golf so addictive. Because golf isn’t just about playing golf. It’s being outdoors in the sunshine, joking around with your friends, maybe listening to some tunes, and above all else, battling yourself. Out on the course, there is nobody else to blame — either I hit the ball well or I don’t, but I can’t say there was a coach who made a bad choice or a player on my fantasy team who screwed it up. It’s me against me, which may be an incredibly narcissistic way of considering it yet is also totally true.

For better or worse, I’ve handed my addiction down to my son, who is in sixth grade and golfs with me regularly. I figure golf is something he can play forever, a hobby that should serve him well both personally and professionally. Mostly, I’m waiting impatiently for my son to grow about two inches taller so I can pass down my irons to him and buy myself a new set. It’s only fair. 

Protect your mental, the kids say. I used to go to a shrink to untangle my brain, now I go to the course. Golf might generate more questions than answers, but somewhere in the midst of all the failure and discovery and the frustration and the occasional success, playing golf makes my life a little more fun.

Swing the club, hit the ball. If only golf were that simple.