dedalus_1947 | Just A Game (Reply)

Golf is the closest game
to the game we call life.
You get bad breaks from good shots;
you get good breaks from bad shots –
but you always have to play the ball where it lies.
(Quote ascribed to Bobby Jones, legendary American golfer)

I have a confession to make. I’ve been denying it to myself, and forbidding Kathleen from mentioning it in public. The truth is, I’m playing golf! Actually the word “playing” is an overly ambitious description of what I try doing. “Struggling” would be more apt. I’ve been struggling at the game of golf for over 4 years now, and, because I’m so bad at it, I haven’t wanted to admit to anyone that I own a set of used clubs and infrequently play a round of 18 holes. The reason I confess it now is because I just returned from another trip to Lone Pine, California with my three high school friends, Jim, Greg, and John (see Amigos). The purpose of this most recent trip was to get together and play a Second Anniversary Golf Game at the Mount Whitney Golf Club on Highway 395, along side the Eastern Sierras.

About five years ago, John, a retired firefighter and paramedic, convinced us to try our hand at golf, by playing a game at the Mt. Whitney Golf Club in Lone Pine. We had driven past it on many occasions, noticing the surprising lack of golfers on the verdant links with the dramatic view of the Alabama Hills and Eastern Sierras. However, no one, except for John, played golf. The three of us were still working at full time careers at the time, and lacked the background, equipment, or training to ever think about playing the game. But John had a counter for every protest or excuse we came up with. His most convincing argument was our prior history of always trying new experiences together. The chronology of our friendship is littered with new and previously untried activities and exertions, either as participants or spectators. We have gone mule-packing into Olive and Beetle Bug Lakes in the Mammoth Mountains, scaling Mt. Whitney, running in San Francisco’s Bay to Breaker Race, cycling 50 miles in the Ensenada-Rosarito Bike Ride, and skydiving at Lake Elsinore. Ultimately he won us over by taking charge of all the arrangements and logistics for the adventure, and doing all the work. He booked the rooms, scheduled the game, and provided everyone with the necessary golfing equipment that none of us owned. All we had to do was show up, divide the cost, and be willing to try a game three of us had never played before.

The afternoon I arrived in Lone Pine to play golf for the first time, the weather was already threatening. Ominous dark clouds were sweeping over Mt. Whitney and stalling over the Owens Valley. Yet even with the television weathermen predicting cold and wet conditions, we kept our talk on the positive side and made optimistic plans for the next day of golf. We were too close to Death Valley, we rationalized, and storm clouds always threatened but never produced. Unfortunately, despite all our brave talk we couldn’t change the odds. It was sprinkling as we arrived at the course the next afternoon. The grounds caretaker and clubhouse manager couldn’t believe their eyes at the sight of four bundled up novices walking noisily through the door and asking to rent two carts for a round of golf. They actually tried talking us out of this misguided adventure; probably more out of concern for their comfort and equipment than our health. But by that point we were not listening to practical advice or thinking rationally. We seemed to be completely in the throes of some compulsive death wish to finish the task we had begun. We were going to play golf, even if it killed us. The only foul weather adjustments we made were to wear hooded anorak jackets and we purchased pairs of golf gloves to shield both hands from the rain and cold.

I don’t remember too many golfing details of that afternoon. We bypassed practice swings at the driving range hoping to get in front of the fast approaching storm. We packed the carts with our bags and quickly drove off to the first tee. There were few attempts at serious golf that day, and no one asked for “mulligans”, or second chance shots – speed was the main consideration. There were few long drives, and none into the face of the quickening head winds and rain coming down the mountains. I pretty much pitched, putted, and dribbled my way along the first 3 fairways and greens. The only positive aspect of my short game strategy was that I didn’t lose a ball, which was easy to do with all the blowing leaves scooting along the grass. By the fourth hole the rain had turned to sleet and, with the winds, it was coming at us sideways. While our waterproof anoraks managed to keep our upper bodies and arms dry, our faces, hats, gloves, pants, and shoes were soaked and freezing. At the 5^th tee we surrendered to the weather and sped back to the clubhouse where the keepers greeted us as heroic fools. Huddling around the potbelly stove we tried restoring some feeling to our extremities by massaging our faces, flexing our fingers and toes, and bending and rubbing our arms and legs. Multiple shots of whiskey with beer chasers quickly renewed our spirits and soon we were soothed by a wave of inner warmth and satisfaction. I realized later, listening to the laughter and joking generated by our descriptions of the climatic conditions we faced to the manager, that I had lost all my previous apprehensions, self-consciousness, and embarrassments about my poor play. My fears of other golfers watching me miss or hack away at balls that sliced, dribbled, or didn’t move, had disappeared in the inhospitable weather we faced. No one saw us swing or putt, no one judged us, and we certainly didn’t play golf. The four of us had, once again, participated in an adventure.

After this single golfing experience in Lone Pine, I was ready to hang up my golfing gloves, return the borrowed clubs to John, and retire from the game. I only hesitated because of John’s advocacy for the game, and Greg’s encouragement. They argued that all of the arduous activities we used to engage in during our youth were quickly becoming difficult to maintain as we approached 60 years of age and beyond. Unless we were ready to surrender to old age and just sit around playing cards, golf offered a healthy option for maintaining our active friendship with travel, fellowship, and a modicum of exercise. Their reasoning was sound, but the fact remained that I sucked at golf and was not willing to invest time, energy, and money for proper training, equipment, and club membership dues or fees. Walking, climbing, running, and cycling were free, and I could still perform those activities fairly well. Playing golf was too hard and expensive.

We were at an impasse, but John, the originator of the golfing concept, with Greg’s support, never conceded defeat. John kept playing on his own and invited us to low-stress, spectator-free opportunities to pitch and putt at San Simeon Pines in Cambria every year. Jim was the only one to really drop the idea of golf, but his younger brother Jeff quickly took his place. I suppose after Jim dropped out, I became the most indifferent member of our occasional foursome. Greg and Jeff purchased clubs, paid for lessons, and actually practiced at driving ranges and public courses. I merely joined them once or twice a year for a game in Cambria, or at a local course for 18 holes. I was more interested in the comradeship than the game. I enjoyed the talk, joking, and laughter before, during, and after the games. However, an unusual thing happened during these last couple of years. First, I started watching how John and Jeff, the more proficient golfers, held and swung their clubs. Second, I accepted all their advice and encouragement. Lastly, by watching Greg and other beginners hack their way up and down fairways, I came to the conclusion that most people who say they play golf really suck at it. Since January of 2012, I made an effort to play whenever John, Greg, or Jeff suggested a game. I joined them twice at Westchester Golf Club, and once at Morro Bay Golf Club, Costa Mesa Golf Club, and Lost Canyon Golf Club. More importantly, I noticed that when I made an effort to go, my swing improved the next time we met. The ball traveled a little farther, flew a little higher, and occasionally even went in the direction I wanted. About three months ago Greg proposed a return trip to Lone Pine to welcome the New Year and play a commemorative game of golf at the Mt. Whitney Golf Club. Surprisingly even Jim agreed to come along. So we all marked the dates in our calendars and awaited the reunion.

On Sunday, January 13, John and I rendezvoused with Greg and Jim at our traditional midway point on the way to Lone Pine – Mike’s Roadhouse Café in Mojave. There we took stock of our provisions, equipment, and the weather conditions we were facing. At that particular time, Southern California was experiencing a peculiar cold snap. Temperatures in L.A. had dropped to freezing levels and the forecasts were for even lower readings in the Eastern Sierras and Owens Lake region. Jim and Greg were coming from Nevada, after spending a few days in Primm, so their clothing was particularly ill suited for cold weather. Likewise, John had not come prepared for such cold conditions. As on the previous golfing safari 5 years earlier, we put thoughts of inclement weather aside and enjoyed our reunion. We picked up provisions in Mojave, purchased some meat jerky in Olancha, and ordered Pizza for an early supper in Lone Pine as we watched the end of the Patriots-Texans football playoff game and then settled in to see the Golden Globe Awards on T.V.

The following morning, in an effort to lengthen the day and give the 23° temperature time to warm up, we made a number of travel stops. First we went to Elevation, a new sporting goods store in Lone Pine, specializing in snow and climbing gear and equipment. There, Greg and John invested in some thermal apparel, head and ear covering, and gloves. I had already come prepared with these items, but Jim was growing more ill at ease at the thought of purchasing more clothing or equipment that would probably never be used again. From there we took a short northern ride to the Manzanar War Relocation Center just outside of town.

For as many times as we’ve visited Lone Pine and gone to Manzanar, we always discover something new. This time we resolved to finally investigate a large, hanger-like warehouse that we always assumed to be a transportation facility, because of the numerous large vehicles parked around it. While taking pictures of the iconic guard tower along Highway 395, we also spotted what appeared to be 3 long wooden barracks that we’d never seen before. Manazar always struck me as a place of terrible beauty – especially in the winter. I’ve been to Lone Pine often enough to know that it is a harsh place, even with the modern comforts of shelter, heat, and plenty of supplies. On the floor of Owens Valley, between the Eastern Sierras on one side and the White and Inyo Mountains on the other, you boil in summer heat, smother and choke in the spring dust storms, and freeze in the winter. Why this valley was chosen to incarcerate over 110,000 Japanese-American men, women, and children during World War II is hard for me to understand. Walking through the three newly built replicas of those WWII detention barracks, bundled and layered as I was in thermal clothing, earmuffs, gloves, climbing boots, and a great coat, I couldn’t imagine how children and the elderly internees stayed warm in those uninsulated, wooden buildings. It was like walking through a long, wooden shed. The only place that generated any feelings of warmth and hope was the replica of Mess Hall Kitchen Barrack # 14. The interior rows of wooden picnic tables and benches gave off a shining communal glow in the shadowed light of the hall. Piped-in background sounds of clanging pots and clinking silverware added to the ghostly feel of this place. But it wasn’t scary or eerie; rather, it felt comforting – like an old memory of childhood. It was as if this was the one place where families and friends could gather; say grace before meals, joke and laugh about their children, and hope and plan for a better tomorrow. Looking through the west-facing screen doors and windows, one could gaze in wonder at the stark beauty of the desert floor and snowcapped mountains. Those summits had guarded this valley for millions of years as silent, icy sentinels, watching creatures of all kinds come and go, settle and die. During the war years they saw a people suffer persecution, captivity, and isolation in Manzanar – and yet those people endured and thrived. They could only have done so because of love, family, and comradeship, the same traits that kept my friends and me together year after year.

As it turned out, the large, grayish-green warehouse was not a Department of Water and Power annex or a transportation facility, but in fact a National Park Memorial Museum containing artifacts, photographs, and displays showing life in the internment camp. We ambled through the models, photos, and replicas, taking our time to get thoroughly warm before venturing out in the 30° weather. We ended our visit with a final stop at the Memorial Monument located at the westernmost edge of the camp, near the cemetery. There, standing next to the tall and white obelisk, with the azure sky and frosty mountain peaks of the Sierras as a background, we paid our respects to those who died in that camp and those who survived. Upon returning for our clubs at the Best Western Motel, next to the Lone Pine Airport, Jim opted out of our foursome and stayed behind. So the 3 Amigos, as we have on many occasions before, ventured forth as an intrepid trio to brave this commemorative experience – playing Extreme golf in difficult weather conditions.

This time a different pair of clubhouse managers couldn’t believe our request for carts and fees. One joked and said the carts wouldn’t run in cold. But humor aside, the two men advised us against playing all 18 holes and promised to keep the stove fire burning. In retrospect, the weather conditions weren’t as bad as the first golf game in the tempest. By 11:30 am, the temperature had climbed to a bearable 35°, and thanks to Elevation apparel, we were all properly insulated from the chilling effects of the wind and cold. We played in sweaters and earmuffs, wearing our jackets only when the icy, easterly winds howled through the fairways as we carted to our balls. In some respects it was a perfect day to be outdoors. The sun illuminated a crystalline clear afternoon, with blue skies and sparkling, snow crested peaks. My muscle-memory of prior golfing occasions did not desert me, and some of my drives were lofty, distant, and controlled. Even my slices were impressive. For the first time I was able to see my balls climb and then arc gently, in a wind-aided slice, to the right. That was the first time I hit towering shots into adjacent fairways. The only real trouble we had was spotting the balls after they were hit. Keeping score was a near impossibility, and Greg and I didn’t bother after a while. John and Greg were clearly the better golfers, but I managed to keep up fairly well. Despite some impressive strokes, by the 9^th hole we were done. Wind chill had sapped our early energy and excitement and we were ready to call it a day. Two shots of whiskey and a beer chaser was the perfect elixir to reviving our flagging spirits and we spent the next half hour regaling the clubhouse clerk with our exploits.

So there you have it. I’ve admitted to being a closet hacker and confessed my less-than-committed attitude toward the game. I still play with second-hand clubs and bag, and have no intention of taking lessons or joining a club. I’ve gotten somewhat better than when I first started hitting the ball five years ago, but I don’t care about accelerating my progress. I enjoy the opportunity it gives me to be with my friends, who thankfully are wise enough to realize that it doesn’t matter how well we play, or what others may think when they see us. What matters is that golf gives us the chance to come together, engage in a healthy, physical activity, and reconnect with our friendship. I’ve also learned that serious golfers like to draw parallels between the game of golf and life. Bobby Jones’ apocryphal quote is a good example. Hollywood has dramatized this philosophy in movies such as The Legend of Bagger Vance, Tin Cup, Caddy Shack, and The Greatest Game Ever Played. I can appreciate the metaphor only as to what it implies about struggle and joy. In fact, thinking about that metaphor drew me back to our morning in Manzanar, when we noticed all the extra touches the internees had added to make their camp life bearable, and in some cases joyful. Driving through the camp, we found the skeletal remains of churches, gardens, and playing fields. In the museum we saw how Japanese-Americans had built, tended, painted, photographed, and transcended their day-to-day existence in the camps. Despite its stark and harsh conditions, Manzanar was not a death camp. Its inhabitants lived, loved, created, and survived. Many of the internees were Buddhist, whose First Noble Truth states that life is suffering. Buddha taught that the goal of enlightenment is to transcend our addictions to human attachments and possessions, and simply enjoy each moment for what it is – an opportunity to live, love, and create. Partnership, companionship, comradeship, and friendship – these are my prescriptions for surviving the struggles and sufferings of life. Golf is just a game.