Farewell to summer

It was so cold Sunday morning that I was forced to turn on the heat for a couple of hours. By mid-day, however, the sun was shining brightly and it was time to open all the windows. Unfortunately, I couldn't do that. I was in the midst of my final battle of the summer with a longtime foe/rival/comrade -- the golf course.

For reasons I can't exactly say, I enjoy playing golf. It is a mysterious game in many ways. I know some guys who look very unathletic but can hit a ball 300 yards and not break a sweat. I also know some folks who are superb athletes who couldn't make a three-foot putt if their life depended on it.

I am basically in the latter category ... minus the superb athlete part.

If I break 100 for 18 holes (or 50 for nine), it is a terrific day in North America. Most days start out like yesterday. I was playing in a tournament organized by my neighbor. The format is unique. He makes four level of players. The A level are the guys with the lowest handicaps, followed by B, C and D players. Us 30 handicapper types take out seats at the back of the bus. Then he does a draw to make sure each four-player team has one guy from each level.

Out we go to do battle. Unlike a lot of tournaments where it is either a scramble (everybody hits shots but you only keep one score) or a best-ball format, we keep the top three scores on each hold here. What inevitably happens is that a hack like me will find water in the desert at some point. After several holes of miserable drives, horrendous chips and laughably bad putts, I suddenly found a rhythm.

Okay, it wasn't exactly the type of stuff you see on network TV. It was only a bogey instead of a double bogey. Later, I strung together a hot run of bogey-par-bogey-par-bogey. My timing was good. One of the pars came on a hole when our A player dumped a ball into a forest. My rare moment of mediocrity saved the score for the hole. (Unable to stand prosperity, I reverted to form and contributed a snowman -- that's an 8 for non-golfers -- down the stretch. Fortunately, my partners were up to the cause on that hole and my score -- complete with a four putt effort from 10 feet away -- was dutifully ignored.)

When all was said and done, we had managed to team up at the right time and ended up winning the tournament. My final score of 102 was perfectly within my usual standards. There were a lot of people who scored better and even a few who scored worse.

In the end, I have to remind myself that scoring isn't the most important thing when on the golf course. Oh, we all have out competitive moments. Yesterday, I stared disgustedly and muttered "Sacre bleu" (or some such thing) after a second consecutive two-foot putt curved away from the hole. My mood improved considerably on the next hole when I rolled in a nifty 15-footer to save a par. It's that kind of game.

No, what golf is to me is simply an extension of summer. I am not a fan of winter play. I don't have a desire to wear a parka when I am putting. I am simply not good enough to put up with trying to hit a drive 200 yards while wearing a hooded sweatshirt. Golf is spending time away from your troubles. It is blanking out cell phones and not worrying about when you are going to cut the lawn. It is walking and chatting with friends and enjoying sunshine. It is a spa without the hot water circling around you.

As we head towards October here in the heartland, the time has come to put the clubs in their winter home. If we lived in Las Vegas, I might be a better golfer because I would probably play more. But I don't necessarily know if I would enjoy it more.

When I got up yesterday morning and saw frost on the windshield, I wasn't at all sure that playing golf was a good idea. My first three or four holes were dreadful and extremely unfun to play. Then I remembered why I was there. I simply relaxed, enjoyed making jokes and telling stories with my partners, and (not uncoincidentally) played a little better. I began to enjoy what may be the last great weather Sunday of the year around these parts. I couldn't imagine a better way to spend it.

But now that it is done, I am okay with putting the weapons away and moving on. The memory of the sunny Sunday is enough to get me through the next six months.

At least I hope so.