A few thoughts… on golf

By Sandy Compton
Reader Contributor

I once golfed with a pastor who did well until the 13th hole. Then, the wheels came off. On the 16th tee, he put a drive so far out of bounds, he should’ve been called for a foul. He turned and said, “I know what I’m doing wrong. I just can’t stop it!” I asked how many parishioners confessed that very thing to him. He laughed so hard, he got his game back. 

That’s golf. 

Winter has (almost) ended, and to keep their minds off politics, skiers have turned to golf. Not all, but a significant percentage of schussers have transitioned to cussers. If you don’t play golf you may not understand the reference. If you do play golf, you know exactly what I mean. Even my most stable, sane golf partners sometimes spew bad words while hacking away at a stubborn white pellet. It’s called “golf” because the other four-letter words are already in play.

There is some thought that “golf” was originally an acronym for “Gentlemen Only, Ladies Forbidden,” but this could hardly be true. Mary, Queen of Scots, played golf in the 1650s, and introduced golf to France, which may be what Elizabeth was really so pissy about. Mary is credited with inventing the word “caddie,” her name for the French cadets assigned to carry her mashies and niblicks. 

Etymologically, the word “golf” is derived from an old Dutch word, “kolf” meaning “club.” In the Scots dialect of the 14th and 15th centuries, the term became “goff” or “gouff.” In the age of Mary, QoS, “golf” finally stuck. Research reveals the modern Dutch word for “club” is “club,” and a “kolf” is a flask. There is some logic to this. Flasks often travel with clubs on courses all over the planet.

For a game that started with bored Scots using sticks to knock pebbles around beaches and sheep pastures sometime before 1500 — maybe before 1300 — golf has done well for itself. So well, in fact, that it was banned in Scotland three times between 1450 and 1750 because the powers that be were afraid golf was eroding efforts to train native Scots in warfare in case the Brits invaded. Again. The kings finally gave up and took up the game. 

The British co-opted golf and took it worldwide. It’s played on every continent, even Antarctica; imported there by New Zealanders — descended from the British. The first match was on a balmy day in 1961 — just above freezing — and played at McMurdo with colored balls on a snowy field. Which brings us back to skiing. Sort of.  

Not everyone is a good skier, and not everyone is a good golfer. Some are good at both, and some are better at one than the other. I’m a good skier, and I’m as bad at golf as I am good at skiing. Most of the time. Sometimes, for brief, miraculous intervals, I am as good at golf as I am at skiing. This happens often enough that I continue playing golf in spite of many less-than-happy moments. Many people, some who are not even as good at golf as I am, use this same model. If there’s a god of golf, it’s a being that makes sure that at least one hole in a round is so good that the rest of the holes are forgotten. A good shot overcomes the agony of five bad ones. Or six. Or seven. It’s a classic case of B.F. Skinner’s idea of random reinforcement. 

Although I’ve used the words “play,” “game” and “sport” in reference to golf, golf is more an endeavor than a game. We watch athletes like Scottie and Nelly “play” against others of similar talent on television, but mere mortal folk are more likely to “play” (read “struggle”) against the course, the weather and what various famous golfers call the longest, toughest hole on any course — the space between our ears. 

As rare as they may be, a purely well-struck golf shot that ends roughly in the vicinity the golfer intended on No. 12 is satisfying enough to overcome the memory of the four shots it took to get out of the sand trap on No. 11. Even though much cussing has been expended. 

But, here’s a warning. If you don’t golf, you may be well advised to not begin. Once you hit your first good shot, whether it’s with a driver, putter or any of the “kolfs” in between, you will likely want to hit another. No matter how long it takes.  

When Sandy Compton is not golfing or skiing or working on his eternal house project, he writes this column and some pretty good books — with mostly happy endings, unlike some of his golf shots. Look for the books at your local bookstore or on amazon.com.