“As dogs to wanton boys are we to the golf gods, they tease us for their sport.”
Paraphrasing the great Shakespeare, from King Lear
There is, in this wonderful game we love, room for everyone. It is a democratic pastime that denies no one the opportunity for embarrassment or, equally, ecstatic triumph. From ragged caddies to silver spoons, public links rats to country club scions, golf beckons all to its unique stage.
One brand of golfer cuts through all strata of cultural layers. One golfer is known to rich and poor alike. His brand of golf is the foundation of countless literature, grist for boundless caricature, fodder for nihilist philosophers, a wellspring of tragedy, and a sympathetic figure, for we all recognize in him, from Morris and Hogan, to Palmer and McIlroy, a bit of ourselves. We speak, of course, of the duffer.
The duffer is, as I speak of him, not the rude, uncivil lout who disregards the rules, the courtesies of golf. This miscreant is recognizable enough and we shun him. The duffer is the immortal soul who, bless him, loves the game, tries his best and… will never the see the green in fewer than four, will take more turf (behind the ball) than an agricultural implement, and whose errant drives are magnificent for their degree of 90-degree flight to right or left.
The game as played with techno-age tools is hard enough, but we who choose to learn of Lord Hickory’s game, find greater challenges. The duffer who takes up hickory golf finds his test magnified by shafts that demand delicate timing, club heads of mystifying artistry imbued with specific skills for specific shot making. He finds his already healthy handicap cresting higher on a wave of newfound mistakes, his duffing compounded by Lord Hickory’s dictates.
We love him. We love the duffer and applaud his exuberance for the game. We encourage his practice, we offer tips and advice (when asked, always when asked), and we sympathize with the bad shot. I have, through some personal experience and examination of the duffer, come to identify what I call the 10 Stages of Duffing. I offer them here for your examination.
Stage One – Laughing it off.
It’s easy to laugh off the occasional errancy. After all, we all miss shots, even, gasp, the pros.
Stage Two – Application of fundamentals.
After the second or third missed shot, the duffer searches his mind for the fundamentals he has read about from Vardon, Hogan, Leadbetter and that other book his wife gave him.
Stage Three – Helpless puzzlement.
When fundamentals fail, the duffer is at a loss. I mean, these are the fundamentals! Hogan said this would work. Leadbetter said this would work. WHY DOESN’T IT WORK?!
Stage Four – Dogged victim of inexorable fate.
As the round continues and fundamentals continue to fail, Hogan and Leadbetter are cursed and rejected, and the duffer progresses from puzzlement to plodding. He is now convinced that he, as Jenkins taught us, is the victim of fate. There is nothing for it but to hit the next shot. If it goes bad, FINE. This, the dogged victim does, again and again, knowing that it is all out of his hands.
Stage Five – Rage against golfing gods, indeed all gods.
It tests the very soul, bad shot followed by worse, over and over. Gods are described with strong language. Mankind is denigrated. Ontological impossibilities are considered. Playing partners demurely increase their distance from the duffer during this stage.
Stage Six – Frustration and silent withdrawal.
Well into the round, exhausted, the duffer bends to his frustration of the damnéd game with silence. The very air around him grows thick with palpable silence, impregnated with a sense of doom (a carry-over from Stage Four.)
Stage Seven – Bitter acceptance.
Our duffer’s shoulders sink, the outward symptom of Stage Seven. You can see his mind work. It is his game, the one he plays. He’s doing the best he can. He’ll never be the club champion. His name will regularly occupy the final slot in event lists. He must accept his lot and his game. His game! This brings him to…
Stage Eight – Shock of realizing it’s just a game.
By golly, he thinks, I was out here in the first place to have some fun and play a round of golf with my friends. It doesn’t matter what I shoot, but that I do my best and enjoy the company of these fine fellows, who, after all, have put up with me these many rounds. So, of course, just freakin’ let it be.
Stage Nine – Apologetic humility.
Our duffer turns to those same friends (who now tentatively approach, searching for assurances of Stage Nine) and offers heartfelt apologies for his testy behavior Stages Five through Seven. Equanimity restored, his apologies accepted (they always are, such is the largess of the golfing soul), the duffer applies himself with renewed ardor to the game. Acceptance confirmed, psychological weights are lifted and further misadventures are relegated to Stage One, with occasional references to Stage Two.
Stage Ten – Laughing it off at 19th hole and preparation for next round of golf.
Wondrous are the stories told at the friendly bar. The duffer is consoled and, gracefully, one hopes, purchases drinks for his companions. His philosophizing on golf waxes to the poetic, for this is his true calling. What is missing on the course, finds its measure in his conversation, embellished and refined by good red wine (or Scotch) and the comfortable knowledge that here, among friends, is where all rounds, good and bad, are rewarded. By the way, he asks, what time are we teeing off next Saturday?