What lies within

Its been raining here the last few days and all I've wanted to do is go play golf. I guess NorCal isn't as ideal for hitting the links at any time of year as SoCal. The weather has been a barrier. I miss the game. I miss the feeling it gives me; putting, pummeling a drive, staring into the distance at the pin position, watching my competitors focus, analyzing my shots, fixing my problems, persisting through difficulty, and winning/being the best. And yet through my daydreams of hitting 8-irons stiff and colossal drives that split plush, green-blue fairways, I see Tiger's swing in slow motion, hitting a ball into an endless abyss as rain drops fall, determined to bring down his ball, and then as the ball takes off, Tiger answers-- "There are no rainy days."


It may be a testament to the arrogance that I have been told I carry (though I refuse to admit to), but on the golf course I always believe I can play with the best. Though I consider myself a good student, or perhaps a good speaker, I don't think I go into anything in my life with as much confidence as I did when I was on the golf course competing for ultimate victory. What does that mean? I can't say. I just miss the game.

For most adult golfers, the driving range a few times a month is the most golf they see, with an actual round with some work buddies or family occasionally. However, I grew up in the generation of Tiger Woods; this is the player the reinvented the concepts of practice, dedication and dominance. As a young boy, I watched Tiger lure massive crowds as he led the field, in the blistering red that kept his competitors up at night wondering how they could reach his level of excellence. What was burned into my brain from an early age, partially from my family's upbringing, but mainly from Tiger's work ethic, was simply that no one is perfect, which means striving for perfection is an endless pursuit. While that fact discouraged some of my friends in the classroom, on the basketball court, or golf course, the idea sparked a flame within me that still burns bright until this day, regardless of the persistent efforts of the outside world to put out that flame, just as the dark clouds try to cover city lights.

I practiced golf without end during high school. The privilege of finance, location, and support gave me the opportunity to play at the highest level, which I will forever be proud of doing for some time. Between local tournaments, high school matches, and national and international events, I was immersed in the junior golf scene, or so I thought. Though I received a scholarship to Pitzer College of the prestigious Claremont Colleges to play golf, I was accepted to the University of California, Berkeley, and was attracted to just about every aspect of the atmosphere of the school, except for the fact that I was not guaranteed a place on their golf team. I contacted the Cal Golf Team, met with the Assistant to the Coach, and from this active effort, there was hope on the horizon. I was told that when I attended Berkeley, I would be given the opportunity to try out second semester (it had to be second semester because I was admitted to a program that prohibited the play of student-athletes because of NCAA rules). However, between my lack of transportation to get the golf course, lack of money, and lack of time to practice, my game faltered, even though my passion for the game was still as strong as it had been the first time I hit a ball straight and in the air. When I was told the team did not have space for more players and that second semester try-outs would be postponed until the beginning of the next year, instead of getting down, I saw this as an opportunity to get my game back over summer. Through competition and endless practice, within 3 months I was playing the best golf of my life. Yet with high expectation, there is often disappointment.

I was told the team would not need to have try-outs again because they had enough guys. As tears rolled down my eyes from a summer entirely devoted to the belief that my dedication to a dream would at least give me a chance to compete, I chose to not let down. In the first two weeks of the new semester, I competed in a tournament that was specifically located in the Berkeley area, thus it was a perfect opportunity for me to put my skills against the other Cal players and show the coaches I deserved a spot on the team, or at the least a chance to prove myself. With scores of 72, 73 in two days and a top-ten finish, I beat four of the six Cal players that had entered into the tournament.

"There are no rainy days."

I stormed into the golf coach's office and told him of my finish, demanding that I deserve a chance to play on the team. When I look back at his reasons for not letting me even try out, I usually get the chills, and my eyes begin to water. But just before I give into tears of depression and utter confusion, oddly and almost as if caught in a dream that recalled the distant past, I feel the sensation of a lightness in my fingertips. Then as if a tidal wave that covers my body from head to toe, that lightness becomes a sweet memory of a pured, true, committed golf shot, which vibrates throughout my entire body.

These days, I can't walk by a blade of grass without looking at it and needing to stop for a moment just to bask in the memory of a past golf shot I've hit off similar textured grass. I feel bad for people walking with me who, often deep in conversation, realize I have stopped 10 feet behind them and am totally silent, clutching my hands together to form the inter-lock grip.

I miss the game.