Tag Archives: Golf

Creating A Day

 

Now that I’m firmly in place at the Tarandowah Golfers Club near Avon, Ontario, it’s time to compose a journey.  In my brain, I know that each day is one but I want that perception to become a deeper reality.  Centered on my days spent walking the fairways, I want to create a series of experiences that I can repeat many times.  Sort of an heroic quest … for breakfast … for sitting in a comfy chair, blogging or reading … for an evening meal and brew.

So I ventured forth this morning towards golfing heaven.  Where will breakie reside?  Avon doesn’t have any restaurants but the town of Belmont is nearby.  On a previous trip, I ‘d seen a sign for the Belmont Diner.  Just to be sure, I googled “Belmont restaurants” but no diner materialized.  Maybe the place is closed.  I remembered that there was a supermarket in the same building so I phoned there, and found out that the diner was alive and well and open till 2:00 each day.

I pulled into the parking lot and opened the door to a gaggle of conversation.  Six guys at one table, about twelve women at another.  Ahh … my kind of place.  I sat at the lunch counter and was greeted by a smiling waitress.  Later, she was there in a jiffy to refill my coffee when she saw the severe angle of my cup.  “It’s not my first day on the job, nor will it be my last.”  As I chowed down on my bacon and eggs, a conversation unfolded with a woman nearby, focused on our mutual love for Stephen King.  Very cool.

Next on my menu was that comfy chair.  I had discovered that Belmont has a library and that it was open today at 1:00.  And here I sit, tapping away.  Maria welcomed me and set me up with a library card.  Free Internet plus a space for me to enjoy Stephen or perhaps a book about the spiritual side of golf.  Oh … life is good.  It’s so quiet in here.  Just a customer or two.  And there’s a big old clock on the wall which reminds me of my grandpa’s farmhouse way back when.  Maria and I have chatted some about Belmont.  She’s even told me there’s a pub in town – The Barking Cat.  Hard to get my head around that name but sounds worth checking out.

I’m just about done here.  Even though it’s raining, I’m heading to Tarandowah.  Brought my umbrella.  I just might stroll the first fairway, with a song on my lips.

 

Discipline … And Letting Go

Now that I’m home, I’m going to take on a project that will require all my dedication.  Will I address world hunger or perhaps contribute to an elevated consciousness in Canada?

No

I’m becoming a better golfer.  There … no grand plan for touching the world, just me touching the land.  Hitting balls with a prayer that they’ll hang in the sky.  Wait a  minute – that sounds a bit spiritual to me.

I’ve become a member at Tarandowah Golfers Club near Avon, Ontario.  My plan is to go there most days and hit shots on the driving range until I get consistent enough to play the course with other members.  Tarandowah is a very difficult course which matches my golf game nicely.  But I’ll get there, supported by the lessons I’m taking from Derek Highley in London.

I was on the range yesterday.  Such a meditation.  I hit 200 balls, trying to “sweep the grass” and have the low point of my swing an inch or two in front of the ball.  I’ve never really practiced before so no wonder that I’ve never broken 120 at Tarandowah.

Consistently hitting the ball on the sweet spot of the clubface is one key to happy golf.  But consistency hasn’t exactly been my middle name.  And so what?  I begin.  Most of my shots were hit off the heel or toe of the club and squibbled unimpressively down the fairway.  My low point ranged from two inches in front to three inches behind, with corresponding tears in the earth.  Sometimes life felt effortless and the ball climbed in the air.  Mostly, though, it was like hitting a stone.

Again I say, so what?  I’m on the road to the sweet spots of life.  And I realize it’s possible to feel that sweetness even during the most wayward shot.  I’m on the grass, doing something I love.  I’m fully capable of letting performance thoughts go and revelling in the happiness of being at Tarandowah.  I met some fine people out there yesterday and that’s the realest joy of any activity for me.  Sooner than I’m expecting, I’ll be walking down the fairways beside them.

Day Seven: The Masters

As my body was saying no to me yesterday, I retreated to something I love … golf.  Specifically to the pro tournament I love the best – The Masters – at the Augusta National Golf Club in Augusta, Georgia.  For decades, I’ve wanted to be there, but tickets only seem available to the privileged few.

So it’s been me and my TV.  And I’ve become friends with some of the holes I’ve gazed upon over the years.  Friends with the greenest of fairways, the vibrant azalea bushes, the par 3 12th over Rae’s Creek, the par 5 15th with its second shot offering the invitation to fly your ball onto the green from far away.  I don’t know how it can feel like home, but it does.  The spirits of long gone golfers still walk the fairways … Bobby Jones, Gene Sarazen and Byron Nelson, as do the heroes I grew up with, thankfully still with us … Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus and Gary Player.

Yesterday I pulled up a chair in front of the lobby bar TV and watched the drama for three hours.  I was happy.  Yes, the beach is out there somewhere but I was in my spot, reliving the joys of yesteryear, except now it’s Jordan Spieth, Rory McIlroy and Jason Day addressing the ball.

On this vacation, I’ve not only reread my favourite golf novel – Golf In The Kingdom – I’m now re-rereading it.  Such an obsessed young man.  Here’s a passage:

One day he shot a ninety, yes a ninety, my friends, and laughed and complimented me all the way.  Had a grand time, he did, never looking back at par, never panickin’ or cursin’, just steady through it a’, the same as he always is.  And that I say is the mark o’ a brave and holy man, that he can retreat like that from par without a whimper.

I don’t know if I saw any holy men on TV yesterday.  I did notice a lot of angst, wild gesturing and talking to oneself.  No one broke 70, the first time that’s happened since 2007.  Sterling golfers such as Phil Mickelson missed the cut.  He double bogeyed both the 15th and 16th holes, including a wayward launch into the pond guarding the par 3.

Golf is such a seductive and oft punishing game, mixed in with the moments where club and ball unite on the sweet spot.  To regularly bring forth sweetness during a round on the links is truly the gift of a great spirit.  I want to be a man like that.

I found myself cheering for par while watching the action unfold, hoping that nobody would end the day with a sub-par score.  Let the huge obstacles wash over you and may you revel in walking the fine earth.  It turned out that seven players finished round two under par, with the total number of strokes they were under adding up to only 14.  Today, I hope this number diminishes to zero.  The game is bigger than all of us.  May the lessons inherent in stumbling, hooking, slicing and missing three-foot putts flow into the rest of our lives.

At 3:00 today, I’ll be back in the lobby, continuing my unusual vacation.  Following my bliss.  Watching life.

Golf Lessons

Yesterday I had my first golf lesson in years.  Today I became a member of Tarandowah Golfers Club in Avon, Ontario.  What did I learn?

1. “Too weak, too inflexible, too old” are just words and need not rule me.

2. Taking the cost of the membership and dividing it by the number of rounds I expect to play in 2016 is an inaccurate way of assessing value.

3.  Old swing thoughts, gleaned from books, have taken up residence in my head.  They may be wrong.  Such as moving farther away from the ball if I’m hitting shots off the toe of the club.

4.  “I belong to a golf club that is stunningly beautiful” is valuable beyond measure.

5.  I can control the swing with my mind.  I can hit off the “sweet spot” of the club without moving my feet back.

6.  I can find other golfers who see the spiritual side of the game, and are willing to talk about it.

7.  “I hit the ball low and to the left” is not a guarantee of the future but rather a description of the past.

8.  Just as I’m surrounded in the gym by well-muscled young men, I will see many excellent golfers at Tarandowah.  Comparisons are irrelevant.

9.  I have the power to put my need for greater distance on the back burner as I focus on the sweep of the grass and the “just right” meeting of club and ball.

10.  I can contribute to the well-being of other members … as a golfer and as a human being.

***

Follow your bliss

My Golf … Yesterday

I couldn’t take it any longer.  I had to drive to Tarandowah and walk the fairways.  Since the temperature was 5 degrees Celsius, I didn’t think I’d have company.  But there were five cars gently reposing in the parking lot.  Golf is such an addiction.

I walked into the clubhouse and said hi to Dave, the pro.  I remembered him and he remembered me.  I told him how I loved the course, how I had given up on golf being a part of my future, and how I was going to turn that around.  Now that I’m strength training and doing yoga, why can’t I have a smooth and powerful swing?  What will help is the lesson I’m having on Tuesday with a golf pro in London, a session that may be the first of many.  I’m not letting my favourite sport go.

Something was bubbling up inside me.  It was love of the land that is Tarandowah.  I had to get out there and walk.  Dave said that would be fine.  Not many players today.  (No doubt.)  So outside I went to the first tee.  I must have stood there for five minutes.  I was home.

I walked slowly down the fairway, pausing here and veering there.  The top of a mound in the rough beckoned me so I lingered there as well, gazing out at the beloved hole, plus its neighbours.  And no exaggeration with the word “beloved”.  These holes are my friends.

I loved gazing into the deep bunkers.  I’m so glad that there are over a hundred of them on the course.  On the green, I revelled in the dips and dives and imagined my putter navigating them with ease.  Guess you could say I have a vivid imagination!

On I strolled, pretty much in heaven.  Behind a mound near the fifth green, I found a spot where I could put down a chair, nestle into my book while listening to the birds and the nearby golfers.  And no one would see me from there.  I figure I’ll leave that experience for the warmer months, but fear not – I will sit there.

I walked all eighteen holes, experiencing eighteen companions.  Often I was astonished by the beauty.  I knew that I wanted this in my life.  As I left the eighteenth green and meandered towards the clubhouse, I realized that I was going to become a member at Tarandowah, not in some vague future but before I leave for Cuba on Thursday.  Will my lesson(s) give me the confidence that I’ll find people willing to play with me on this difficult course?  Yes.  I’m going to walk these fairways for years and years.  Happiness is …

My Golf … The Course

Can you fall in love with a piece of land?  I say yes.  For me, it’s the Tarandowah Golfers Club near Avon, Ontario.  Years ago, the farmers who owned the property decided that they wanted to build a championship golf course there.  They recruited a British golf architect, Martin Hawtree, to create a masterpiece in rural Southern Ontario.  And Martin came through.

Tarandowah is a links course, which usually means a track by the sea with dry fairways, deep pot bunkers, wild fescue grass in the rough … and wind.  My home way from home has all that, except for waves lapping on the shore.  It’s an environment of the heart for me.  For the first time in my life, I’ve found a course where I love every hole.  All eighteen of them have character, the sense of a unique place in the world.  And there aren’t any condo developments surrounding the fairways … just more farm land.  The content thrives within a context of peace, lingering and birds on the wing.

I would love to get to the point where the score matters not.  Walking on the land does.  Hitting some shots that fly off the clubface and touch the sky.  Finding the out-of-the-way spots between fairways, high points of land where I can see much of the journey through the front and back nines.  A relationship to the earth.

I think of the sixth hole, a honey of a par four with an elevated tee and a big mound of fescue in the middle of the fairway.  That’s not a mistake.  It’s an opportunity to see that life throws us lots of curve balls.  A fine drive that ends up in six inches of grass.  A hard fairway that turns a “down the middle” drive into a sideways bounce, plopping my ball into a deep sand trap.

I yearn to find companions who will join with me in seeing the beauty of the holes before having thoughts about the golf swing.  People who will pause in wonder on the tees before smacking the little white ball down the fairway.  Folks who love Tarandowah … and may the score rest where it does.

I yearn to be a member out there near Avon.  To come to the course as the sun rises.  To just sit near the 13th green, way out at the far end of Tarandowah, letting the beauty in.

There are over a hundred deep bunkers.  What if I wanted to spend time in each of them?  Was okay with my ball bouncing into the creek that pops its head up all over the place?  Smiled after my final scorecard count was 120?  Would that be golf?  I think so.

My Golf … The History

Why fight it?  I’m passionate about golf and have been ever since I was a teenager.  In terms of my current spiritual life, the tendency of Buddhists like me is to think in terms of “ascent” – opening to ever more rarified forms of consciousness.  But “descent” is another possibility – seeing the transcendent in worldly activities, in experiences of the body.  Both approaches contribute to my well-being.  So here I am once more descending into golf.

My passion for the game has been under wraps for a few years but I can feel it re-emerging.  For the past few days, I’ve been reminiscing about my past golfing life, and how I’ve seen the sport as symbolic of life’s journey.

As a kid, I spent a couple of weeks every summer on grandpa’s farm near Dunsford, Ontario.  I remember teeing it up near the lane and trying to reach a fence maybe 120 yards away with my drives.  I don’t think I ever succeeded but I sure had fun, even though I lost a lot of balls in the grain.

A few hundred yards down the road was a nine-hole course – the Dunsford Golf Club.  I spent so many hours walking those fairways alone, hitting the occasional shot that felt so pure, so effortless.  I was becoming a human being.

Back home in Toronto, I discovered the Don Valley Golf Course.  Juniors could play early in the morning.  Even earlier, as the sun rose, I usually was scouring the banks of the Don River in search of golf balls.  Once, I walked onto the 18th tee, a par four, having consumed 84 strokes in my round.  A bogey five and I would break 90 for the first time in my life.  The river crossed in front of the green.  After my drive landed fine in the fairway, I stood over the ball.  I was nervous.  Put the ball into the drink and there’d go the milestone achievement.  Instead I swung smoothly and watched the ball soar onto the green.  Two putts later, I had an 88.  Never since have I broken 90 … but the future beckons.

Even way back then, I loved watching the professionals play.  I’ve stood behind Jack Nicklaus on the tee in Toronto and Calgary, watching the ball continue to climb.  One time I stepped on Gary Player’s ball, happily in a practice round.  I’ve seen the majesty of St. George’s Golf and Country Club in Toronto.  More recently, I’ve followed women pros as they navigated the rolling fairways of my hometown London Hunt and Country Club.  Usually in a blissed-out frame of mind.

Golf is in my genes, I guess.  A resonating part of my life for so many years.  Yes, it’s been underground for awhile but you can’t keep a good sport down.  On I go into a journey of rediscovery.

Singing and Crying

I love golf.  I love women’s professional golf.  Yes, the women are pretty but more importantly they let themselves be human beings on the course.  Many of them smile, celebrate and interact with the fans.

Last week I learned of an event that started in 2014 and is played every two years: The UL International Crown.  Women pros have a world ranking system.  In July, the four best female golfers from each of the best eight countries will compete against each other near Chicago.  If the Crown was held today, the countries would be South Korea, United States, Japan, Taiwan, England, Sweden, Thailand and Australia.

There’s never been a competition like this in professional golf, where you get to represent your homeland.  In the men’s game, there’s the Ryder Cup every two years in which teams from the United States and Europe face off.  In the alternate years, the President’s Cup pits the US golfers against “International” pros, who come from countries outside of Europe.  But apart from the Americans, you don’t hold the banner of your own land.

I read about the inaugural edition of the Crown, which was held in Maryland in 2014.  On the first day, on the first tee, the four Australian golfers stood next to the team from South Korea, and the two national anthems were played.  Soon thereafter, competitors from Thailand and Spain heard their own beautiful music.

Karrie Webb from Australia sang “Advance Australia Fair”.  Good for her.  In a foreign country, surrounded by hundreds of fans, and by no means a professional musician.  It was expression, not performance.

Belen Mozo didn’t sing the Spanish national anthem.  She cried.  I saw the video.  How lovely.

During the competition, flags were waved, cheers were cheered, golfing compatriots were hugged, smiles were beamed, more tears were shed.  The videos blew me away.

I decided last night to be a part of this in 2016.  So I’m going to drive from Union, Ontario to Chicago (about eight hours) on July 20.  I’m staying in the Super 8 Motel in Gurnee, Illinois for five nights.  And I’m going to be walking the golf course with the competitors for four days.

Bring on the joy.  Bring on the anguish.  Bring on the music.

 

 

Women Golfing

I’ve loved golf for most of my life.  I remember as a kid hitting balls into a field on my grandpa’s farm.  And then blissing out when a nine-hole course opened up a few farms down the road.  I’ve had trouble breaking 100 but there were always a few shots each round that leapt off the sweet spot of my clubface and arced towards the green.

Then there’s computer golf.  I have lots of courses on my laptop and sometimes on the screen I hit it straight and long.  Oh, I have a rich fantasy life.

And of course there’s watching the pros play on TV.  Many exciting down-to-the wire finishes.  Over the years, though, I’ve lost interest in seeing the men play.  Everyone seems so businesslike, so serious.  Nary a smile to be seen.

It’s not like the women are completely opposite to this but still a lot of the female players show their personalities … saying hi to people in the galleries, congratulating a competitor for a great shot, flashing the teeth when all is well, and even sometimes showing a rueful smile when the ball goes out of bounds.

I love women.  Men are fine but in general women are easier to talk to.  Okay, that’s a big stereotype but there’s some truth in it.  On the Ladies Professional Golf Association tour (the LPGA), there are many pretty women, and many nice people.  That’s what I want to see … genuine human beings.

The LPGA season starts tomorrow in the Bahamas.  I’m so taken with a young Canadian golfer – Brooke Henderson – who’s kind, intelligent and attractive.  I want her to do well as she starts her professional career.

The little voice in my head tells me that I’m wasting my time and energy when I wax poetic about women players such as Brooke.  “You have a spiritual life, Bruce, and you’re here on Earth to spread love around, not to walk the fairways at tournaments and watch highly skilled players do their thing.”

The larger voice points to something sweet on the golf course.  The sport mimics the great journey of life … 18 holes of ups and downs.  I want to see the joy on the golfers’ faces, and the sadness when things are falling apart.  I want to see kindness, determination and acceptance.  I want to see life.

I enrolled yesterday in the “LPGA Fantasy Series”, where I pick a team of professional golfers and get points based on how well they do in the real tournaments.  I don’t care about the prizes.  I care a bit about winning the series, as I compete with a few thousand other fans across the world.  But I can handle finishing near the bottom of the heap.  I’m thrilled that I picked players who strike me as being lovely humans.  I’m also happy that so many countries are represented on my team: Canada, USA, Italy, South Korea, Paraguay, Scotland and Spain.  The world community.

All this makes me happy, even though I know that comes from within.  And a happy Bruce touches people.  So thank you, golf, and thank you, women players.  May we all hit it straight down the middle, and be gentle with ourselves when the ball ends up in the rough.

Day Twenty-Eight … Just Fore The Fun Of It

Have I ever told you that I’m a champion golfer?  Actually, I haven’t even told myself.  After a round of golf, I love returning to the pro shop and telling the desk clerk “I shot 70 today.” > “Really?  That’s wonderful.” > “Yeah, and the second nine was even better.”

In my deep dark youth, when I was really serious about the game, I would sometimes throw my club after an abysmal shot.  Thank goodness there were no foreheads nearby.  Once, on the raised tee of a par 3 hole, with a shallow pond right in front of me, I swung mightily in an already upset kind of way.  The ball bounced aimlessly over the smooth green grass and deposited itself into the drink.  I did what any normal deranged person would do.  I picked up my golf bag and threw it into the water.  A mighty splash it was.  And then I just stared at the ripples as my golf budget sunk.  After a brief pause for sanity, I clambered off the tee and waded in.  Adorned with muck, my bag and clubs were resurrected.  My goodness, I was young back then.

Yesterday, armed with decades of maturity, I agreed with Lance that a golf game with the kids would be a good idea.  Family.  What a blessing to be out on the course with Jaxon, Jace and Lance.  The golf club in Okotoks only allows foursomes so Jagger got to hang out with Nona while Ember was getting her locks cut off.  She’s one smooth dog now.  And I’m one smooth swinger of the club.  Maybe.

We rented two golf carts and it was Jace and me riding together.  Like all the rest of us, he hit a few good shots within a symphony of not good ones.  Okay, my not good ones were just plain bad.  But back to Jace.  He’d get a bit frustrated but would come right back and give it his best on the next shot.  And he smiled a lot.  Pretty cool for an 8-year-old.  It could be that he was the more mature golfer in our cart.

I always have visions of an effortless swing followed by the ball soaring through the air and landing softly on the green.  Now since I am a retired vision teacher, you’d think that I could bring these images into reality.  Trouble is, in my short life, whenever I’ve completed my followthrough after a shot, and I look up, the ball is already coming down!  Tiger Woods never had these problems.  Well, maybe he does now.

Oh well.  Back to the heroics of the day.  Lance lent me his old clubs but he didn’t have a putter for me.  So I putted with a driver, the straightest face club in the bag.  And I sunk one 20-foot putt!  I raised my arms aloft and yelled out “Yes!”  Those male golf pros just aren’t demonstrative enough for me.  And then unfortunately there was my five-putt on the last hole.

Lance hit all these booming drives.  No problem for him when he looked up, I’m sure.  Putting, however, was a challenge.  Jaxon also hit some good shots mixed in with the bad.  So really we were an epic foursome.  The truth is that golf was just a convenient excuse to be together and talk about silly things for four hours.

And I hope we talk about many more silly things over the next ten days.  Come with us.