A Winter Golfer's Lament

There are many positive things about living in a region of the United States that has seasons. It gives the year a natural rhythm, an ebb and flow that helps define the months. I have always shuddered at the idea of living in Florida, Arizona, or Southern California because the endlessly sunny days — at least for me — eventually send me into foggy malaise where everything feels the same. I don’t want to live in a simulation. I want to put my golf clubs away for a few months, to lock away all my swing demons, and attack the spring with a feeling of renewal and hope.

But each year, right about this time, I feel like I am being tested, like the gods are trying to break me. I watch the pros tee it up in Hawaii, in Palm Springs, in Phoenix, and in Monterey, and the sickness gradually returns.

I want to hit a bucket of golf balls.

I want to pull a training aid out of my basement.

I want to chip balls in my backyard.

Instead, I am scraping ice off my windshield and pulling on my snow boots just so I can drag the trash can to the curb.

In my most shameful moments, I dream of Arizona. Apologies to Arizonans, but this is rock bottom.

It’s true that Maryland in July can feel like the Devil's armpit. There is a reason Under Armour was invented here, with its promise to wick away sweat, because sweating through your shirt during a round of golf here isn’t just a possibility, it’s a promise. But there are few things in life as wonderful as golf in the fall, the kind of rounds where you wear a quarter zip on the front nine, only to peel it off and greet the sun like an old friend on the back nine. It also gives the rounds in October and November a special resonance. I know my opportunities are dwindling, so I savor them. If I get to tee it up in December, it feels like I’m getting away with something.

I recognize, every winter, what a strange ritual it is to hit golf balls at the driving range like it’s an act of meditation. I would probably be a better man, a better father, even a better writer, if I spent that time in a more productive way. I could go to the gym or read a book or even join hot yoga. Instead, I sneak away to the range twice a week and fork over my $13 for a large bucket and spend an hour alone — with only my crooked and janky swing as company — chasing a feeling that I’ll likely never capture.

I could visit a simulator, of course. Many people do. But it always feels like trying to replace the tender reality of human love with artificial intelligence. Is it really golf if you can’t feel the breeze in your face? I’d rather sit through a frost delay at my local muni than smash balls into a screen and lie to myself that I’m playing Bandon Dunes.

Every year, by the time the Pebble Beach Pro-Am rolls around, I get close to my breaking point. I check the forecast regularly, praying for temperatures to climb into the 40s, just to give me hope. When the forecast in Monterey is beautiful, I get especially jealous. I’m the only person who doesn’t mind a grey day at Pebble Beach where the wind is whipping. At least they’re getting a taste of how the rest of us live.

By the time Riviera arrives, the misery has begun to lift. I can see the birds in my backyard returning to the trees. A few more weeks and they’ll open the putting green at the course not far from my house. I might even put out a few feelers for a game with some friends. They too have been staring out the window, through many grey days, praying for spring.