Quadruple Bogey
I’m really bad at golf.
Yes, I’m fully aware of it. I know the ball isn’t supposed to land in a sand trap or hook left. I know I’m not supposed to score in the high 50s on a nine-hole course. I’ve known that for the past three years, yet here I am finishing my fourth year on the high school golf team.
It amazes me that I got this far. My motive for joining the team freshman year was as bad as my actual skills. I had watched a documentary in eighth grade about eight-year-old pro golfers and decided that I could play better than them. That first time I went to the driving range with my grandpa’s too-tall, right-handed clubs, I found out just how good those eight-year-olds really were. But despite being mostly unable to hit the ball off the tee that first day, the game was too intriguing for me to admit defeat. After months of practicing at the driving range, my mom believed in me enough to buy me my very own set of golf clubs. Every time I managed to slice a ball to reach the 100-yard flag - well, it looked like it reached if I squinted enough - I smiled to myself. Slowly, I was making progress.
Not an ounce of fear pulsed in me as I walked into the first day of golf tryouts. That arrogance evaporated twenty minutes later when I realized I didn’t bring tees, a glove, or on-course experience. Over the next three hours, I played nine holes and lost four balls. At one point, I managed the most beautiful hit of my life - until it hit a tree and ricocheted into the water. By the time I dragged myself to the last hole, I was sweaty, thirsty, and deflated. So imagine my shock when the coach said he saw potential in all of us and decided to not cut anyone that year. The idea of embarrassing myself in front of my skilled teammates was unappealing, but there was no way I would deny myself this amazing opportunity, especially with the faith of my mom and coach. When I got home, I used my new coach’s advice to improve my golf stroke and kept practicing until it became semi-natural.
Though my ego was crushed, I went to the golf course every day to practice. Somehow, I was going to figure out the difference between chipping and pitching, and learn how to shoot less than seven strokes per hole. After almost four seasons of practice and meets, I’ve lost dozens of golf balls, disturbed many birds, and nearly hit my golf coach with a ball twice. Yet I keep coming back.
I wish I could say my journey is like one of those movies where the protagonist has a training montage before becoming the best. Unfortunately, I won’t be the next Tiger Woods anytime soon, but I’ve known that since the first day of tryouts. I focus on the smaller goals instead: getting out of the sand with one swing, hitting straight, and attaining a lower score than I could yesterday. In the general ranking of the team, I’m still one of the worst. But to my amazing coach and me, my development is astounding. Even when I four-putt a hole and my teammates are giving me sympathetic glances, the desire for the next shot to be better will always keep me going. Yes, I may struggle, but as long as I keep inching myself away from mediocrity and towards decency, I’ll never leave the course.