Tuesday, July 09, 2002
Thinking about golf and the purpose of life
LOOKING AHEAD by Wally Dobelis
Asking profound questions about the purpose of life has never been my bent. I have been more concerned with resolving the purposes behind civil wars, terrorism, the melting of the icebergs and trading land for peace.
One question has continued to bother me, over a period of years, as I mow our upstate slope, a couple of hours' investment every two weeks. What was my purpose of taking an acre and a half of a raw pasture and trimming it, a piece at a time, over two decades, into a rough lawn? It was not as though we were living in Brazil, turning jungle into arable land and creating a family's livelihood. I. eventually resolved it as man's need for order out of chaos, the satisfaction of accomplishment and an opportunity for me to become a Luke Short hero, driving my pony (a 16-horse lawn tractor) through Rattlesnake Gulch, Mosquito Haven, Pine Barrens and the Widowmaker country (my six low-branched dwarf apple tree orchard), holding on to my cap and glasses while taking Dale Earnhardt turns. It earns me scratches from the wild rosebush thorns and bruises from low branches, and I come in bloodied, to my dearest's consternation. Hey, it's an affirmation that it is, still, a man's world. Yeah! By the way, if you don't know Luke (Frederick D. Glidden, 1908-75), he was the quintessential cowboy writer of the mid-century, Hollywood's style, and would tell of percentage girls, hostlers and local justice, with nary a curse in his vocabulary.
Over this worrisome Fourth of July vacation week, while anxiously waiting for the shoe to drop. I have finally discovered the purpose of the lawn. Driving balls at the Bermuda golf course range was the clue. We have over 200 feet of slope. Why not hit some light-weight hollow plastic practice balls up and down, regaining old skills, on one's own time and property?
This is not a sudden love affair. Golf was my passion for some 15 of my early working years. We the office devotees would leave Union Square at 4:30 (late work was unheard of, then) during the spring and summer, riding the Woodlawn #4 train to the Mosholu public golf course and playing 18 holes, then resting at the 19th Hole bar for a few beers before the trip home. The course is now nine holes, don't ask ne why. NYC needed the space.
The Old Curmudgeon, premier corporate counsel and an occasional contributor of wisdom to this column, then a rookie lawyer, was my frequent partner. A psychologically domineering player, once he established his first ball priority, he would be impatiently waiting for the rest of us to hit, sometimes tapping a club, engaging in a set of intimidating body language procedures which he justified by claiming the late hour (he was also a heavy elbows man in basketball). We were dedicated people. My vacations consisted of golf in the morning, followed by Central Park tennis in the afternoon. Public golf and tennis were available, by buying annual permits and paying a ridiculously low fee per round. There were fine courses at Pelham, Split Rock and Van Cortlandt Park in my beautiful Bronx of leafy concourses and avenues, where seniors would sit on benches well past midnight of a hot summer's day, talking of the old country until it was cool enough to go to sleep (no air conditioning and few TV sets in those years). The LaTourette course on Staten Island was the dream course for public golfers. Fortunately, most of the facilities still exist, though circumstances have changed. This year public golf has acquired some glamor, with the 2002 Open being held at the Bethpage Black Course.
You may be interested in knowing that we the public golf course players of the 1960's had our own Tiger Woods. It was Chi-Chi Rodriguez, the diminutive Puerto Rican-born golfer with the straw hat, who sometimes came to the course. While his best earnings year brought in $800,000, he has raised over $5 million for his kids' foundation in Clearwater, FL. Today the hero worship, so I gather, is between Tiger and John Daly, the 5 ft 11in 225 lb beerbelly natural, who outdrives Tiger, 311 yards to 297. Tiger is kind of hard to idolize, the perfect athlete, almost superhuman, and John Daly is a necessary balancing factor, without whom the average guy would be feeling disenfranchised. In my upstate country where laboring men are the course regulars, the tee shot is the ultimate ego statement.
I'm not there, yet, future golf retread that I plan to be, with my dearest, but let's get back to basics. Decades ago I gave up golf, a game, for a marriage, a family and a life. We are coming back to golf for health and fun. As for combining the game and life, I have some semi-serious reservations. Trusting a dedicated golfer to lead a major corporation, a company, a country or any other important entity may be dicey. Serious golf is demanding, it causes you to question your personal judgment (you know to keep your head down, your right elbow tucked, your weight shifted, and yet the shot gets flubbed), possibly affecting your faith in the righteousness of other decisions. It requires long hours of fairway activity, too long for today's demanding business environment. One has to be a profoundly proficient compartmentalizer, of a Clintonesque stature, and even then it may not work.
To close with some advice for other lawn slaves, think of utilizing your labors for a purposeful result. Do not watch too much CNN or listen to radio news, play some music, cook some barbecued chickens or salmon steaks and enjoy the summer. Happy post-Fourth of July!
Asking profound questions about the purpose of life has never been my bent. I have been more concerned with resolving the purposes behind civil wars, terrorism, the melting of the icebergs and trading land for peace.
One question has continued to bother me, over a period of years, as I mow our upstate slope, a couple of hours' investment every two weeks. What was my purpose of taking an acre and a half of a raw pasture and trimming it, a piece at a time, over two decades, into a rough lawn? It was not as though we were living in Brazil, turning jungle into arable land and creating a family's livelihood. I. eventually resolved it as man's need for order out of chaos, the satisfaction of accomplishment and an opportunity for me to become a Luke Short hero, driving my pony (a 16-horse lawn tractor) through Rattlesnake Gulch, Mosquito Haven, Pine Barrens and the Widowmaker country (my six low-branched dwarf apple tree orchard), holding on to my cap and glasses while taking Dale Earnhardt turns. It earns me scratches from the wild rosebush thorns and bruises from low branches, and I come in bloodied, to my dearest's consternation. Hey, it's an affirmation that it is, still, a man's world. Yeah! By the way, if you don't know Luke (Frederick D. Glidden, 1908-75), he was the quintessential cowboy writer of the mid-century, Hollywood's style, and would tell of percentage girls, hostlers and local justice, with nary a curse in his vocabulary.
Over this worrisome Fourth of July vacation week, while anxiously waiting for the shoe to drop. I have finally discovered the purpose of the lawn. Driving balls at the Bermuda golf course range was the clue. We have over 200 feet of slope. Why not hit some light-weight hollow plastic practice balls up and down, regaining old skills, on one's own time and property?
This is not a sudden love affair. Golf was my passion for some 15 of my early working years. We the office devotees would leave Union Square at 4:30 (late work was unheard of, then) during the spring and summer, riding the Woodlawn #4 train to the Mosholu public golf course and playing 18 holes, then resting at the 19th Hole bar for a few beers before the trip home. The course is now nine holes, don't ask ne why. NYC needed the space.
The Old Curmudgeon, premier corporate counsel and an occasional contributor of wisdom to this column, then a rookie lawyer, was my frequent partner. A psychologically domineering player, once he established his first ball priority, he would be impatiently waiting for the rest of us to hit, sometimes tapping a club, engaging in a set of intimidating body language procedures which he justified by claiming the late hour (he was also a heavy elbows man in basketball). We were dedicated people. My vacations consisted of golf in the morning, followed by Central Park tennis in the afternoon. Public golf and tennis were available, by buying annual permits and paying a ridiculously low fee per round. There were fine courses at Pelham, Split Rock and Van Cortlandt Park in my beautiful Bronx of leafy concourses and avenues, where seniors would sit on benches well past midnight of a hot summer's day, talking of the old country until it was cool enough to go to sleep (no air conditioning and few TV sets in those years). The LaTourette course on Staten Island was the dream course for public golfers. Fortunately, most of the facilities still exist, though circumstances have changed. This year public golf has acquired some glamor, with the 2002 Open being held at the Bethpage Black Course.
You may be interested in knowing that we the public golf course players of the 1960's had our own Tiger Woods. It was Chi-Chi Rodriguez, the diminutive Puerto Rican-born golfer with the straw hat, who sometimes came to the course. While his best earnings year brought in $800,000, he has raised over $5 million for his kids' foundation in Clearwater, FL. Today the hero worship, so I gather, is between Tiger and John Daly, the 5 ft 11in 225 lb beerbelly natural, who outdrives Tiger, 311 yards to 297. Tiger is kind of hard to idolize, the perfect athlete, almost superhuman, and John Daly is a necessary balancing factor, without whom the average guy would be feeling disenfranchised. In my upstate country where laboring men are the course regulars, the tee shot is the ultimate ego statement.
I'm not there, yet, future golf retread that I plan to be, with my dearest, but let's get back to basics. Decades ago I gave up golf, a game, for a marriage, a family and a life. We are coming back to golf for health and fun. As for combining the game and life, I have some semi-serious reservations. Trusting a dedicated golfer to lead a major corporation, a company, a country or any other important entity may be dicey. Serious golf is demanding, it causes you to question your personal judgment (you know to keep your head down, your right elbow tucked, your weight shifted, and yet the shot gets flubbed), possibly affecting your faith in the righteousness of other decisions. It requires long hours of fairway activity, too long for today's demanding business environment. One has to be a profoundly proficient compartmentalizer, of a Clintonesque stature, and even then it may not work.
To close with some advice for other lawn slaves, think of utilizing your labors for a purposeful result. Do not watch too much CNN or listen to radio news, play some music, cook some barbecued chickens or salmon steaks and enjoy the summer. Happy post-Fourth of July!
# posted by Wally Dobelis @ 7:15 AM 
