The rain was no longer horizontal, now coming down straight, although more enthusiastically. The horizon was close, defined by rolling dark clouds; the temperature hovered around 8C. In other words, it was a perfect day to be at the range.
I picked what looked like the driest mat; the only other guy at that end of the stalls – a half dozen would-be Furyks flailed near the centre of this semicircle of flagellation, perhaps wanting to be near the exit – was next to me, our meditations separated by a three-foot high section of plywood, the green paint scuffed and tired.
We’d exchanged nods when I arrived, and had then gone about our business. From his headdress, I’d subconsciously guessed that he was from India or Pakistan. From mine, he probably thought I was from the planet Srixon.
We hit our yellow Top Flites in a comfortably shared silence, the spray from the sodden mats darkening our pant legs, the occasional gusts sending the cold rain into our faces. Refreshing really, or quite manic.
About a half-bucket in I took a break, to change my wet glove really, and as I retrieved a dry one I looked toward the parking lot where a handful of vehicles glistening with rainwater looked better than they should. A guy was helping a little tyke, couldn’t have been more than four years old, up the slight incline. The kid had those Osh-Kosh type overalls on, feet the size of putter heads, and a clear-eyed determination the world was just waiting to dim. Once they got up the slope, the guy handed his little charge a cut-down club and the tyke started two-handed, split-gripped whiffs at the dandelion heads, sending up shimmering sprays. It was such a Norman Rockwell, pre-First Tee moment that I had to get the attention of my battery mate.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Look at this. This is golf; passing the game along to the next generation.”
He turned, propped his club and crossed his feet – doing the full Leadbetter – and then smiled.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “He’s introducing him to a lifetime of puzzlement.”
Ever since that day, his words have resonated. How do you explain the obsession other than describing it, to coin a word, as a case of terminal perplexion? Unfortunately, it has proven to be eminently communicable.
The guy at the range was right, although how he can play in a turban – not that there’s anything wrong with that – is a puzzle in itself. Golf is the Rubik’s Cube of sport: unsolvable except by a precious few, infinitely frustrating to the rest. Yet, we persist.
That last rumble sounded close. The trees are protesting a bit around the edges. Little pats on the window are becoming pings; the first rivulets are forming and initiating their eccentric patterns. It’s suddenly darker. If this gets much worse, it will be a perfect afternoon to go to the range.
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