GHIN, not gin. Both are clear; they hide nothing. I can lust after them for the same reasons. Not quite, but close enough. I’m a mid-single-digit handicap.
That number on the scorecard—it can make the heavens sing or make me want to dig a hole and throw the dirt on top of myself. Dramatic. Dropping it one-tenth of a point is cause for a martini, maybe two.
Is a hobby bad when, to me, it’s one of the most important things in the world?
When I was a young man, babies came into the picture. I had the perfect excuse. “Honey, I’m playing with your dad.” That didn’t work for long. If your spouse feels like you’re having more fun than they are, game over.
Things are different now. If I mention that I want to go on a golf trip, she asks if she can pack my bags.
For years, I played without ever thinking about that number. I was just trying to find my ball. Then it became almost more important than the game itself. “What’s your index, pal?” Will I be worthy?
The first thing I do after my round, even before I taste the beer in front of me, is post my score. Up or down.
Tomorrow will tell.
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