This is Golf

I stole this from Ron Greene, hope he doesn’t mind me sharing it with everyone.

For those of you fortunate enough to read the Charlotte Observer, son Ron Greene, Jr.,current sports columnist, has his father’s talents for the word(Ron Greene Sr., former sports editor for the Observer) . If you ever get a chance, read his dad’s collections of columns that he writes every Thanksgiving: “Things I’m thankful for”…
If you’re a golfer, this hits you square ly in your memory recesses of this great game !…Enjoy

THE CHARLOTTE OBSERVER

RON GREEN JR.

It’s the way the first tee feels, alive with possibility.

It’s that feeling, out of nowhere, that comes as you’re lining up a putt,
letting you know that all you have to do is get the ball rolling and the
hole will get in the way.

It’s the thump of a well-played bunker shot.

It’s nine holes late in the day, when the sun is sinking and the shadows
are stretching, showing every bump and roll in a golden light that makes
you stop and look around.

It’s the Golf Channel on in the corner of the bar.

It’s calling your shot and pulling it off.

It’s the eighth hole at Grandfather, the third at Linville and the 14th
at Balsam Mountain, paintings with a flagstick in the middle.

It’s your Saturday morning game, with a little money on the line and no
haggling about the teams.

It’s the guys who look like they can’t play a lick then spend their days
around par, not needing swing coaches, just having a knack for getting
the ball in the hole.

It’s calling your own penalties.

It’s a kid with his bag slung over his shoulder, cap pulled low, hoofing
it down a fairway.

It’s nipping a wedge just right, having it bounce once and cozy up to
the hole the way Sergio does it.

It’s a bowl of peanuts and a cold beer at the end of the day, when
stories can be embellished, if only a little.

It’s the warm feel of a turtleneck in December, the first greening of
the grass in March, the thrill of hitting it a club longer in July and
greens as fast as the kitchen floor in October.

It’s the suntan marks left by your golf socks and shoes.

It’s Harbour Town in April, Quail Hollow in May and Pinehurst any time.

It’s having the sun behind you and catching a tee shot square, having a
moment to admire it as it’s framed against the sky.

It’s the small but sudden thrill of finding a new Titleist, even if you
already have a bagful.

It’s the clutch in your throat the first time you see St. Andrews and
the never-ending thrill of Amen Corner.

It’s the belief that the magic you’ve found in a new driver will
last forever.

It’s the scent of salt air, the faint taste of pine pollen on your lips
and the glimpse of a gator in a low country lagoon.

It’s standing over a 5-footer that doesn’t matter to anyone but you and
being thankful for the feeling.

It’s Tiger on the tee, Mickelson with a wedge in his hand, Nicklaus on
the property.

It’s the little places with pickups in the parking lot, ragged
grass, bumpy greens, worn-out golf carts, yellow range balls and a
spirit all their own.

It’s the way you practice your swing in the elevator riding down, the
way you put an overlapping grip on the rake and the way you see golf holes
where others just see fields along the highway.

It’s the way tournament golf feels, even if it’s just a little club event.

It’s the feel of new grips and the shine of new irons.

It’s playing with your father, your brother or your daughter.

It’s listening to David Feherty, Johnny Miller and Nick Faldo explain
the game as only they can.

It’s the gentle creak of aging muscles in the evening, a good tired.

It’s a birdie at the 18th to win the press.

It’s having people who understand what’s important, whether
it’s renovating a course or reinventing a local tournament.

It’s going for a par-5 in two, trying to cut a corner and that
instant when you wonder if the shot is as good as it looks.

It’s golf.

And it’s why we play.

In golf, humiliations are the essence of the game.”

- Alstair Cooke