All of us who have ever chased the
little white ball around the greener pastures can certainly relate to Rory
McIlroy when he walked off the course at the Honda Classic. Golf is like that. Whatever personal problems
or foibles or quirks one might have are always revealed on a golf course. Golf is cruel. The game will expose you, sooner or later.
Need examples? A hot head will eventually throw his club. A
passive type will lay up. A neurotic
will miss a two foot putt. The bold will go for it. The dumb will do the same. The
patient will shake it off. The impatient
will compound the previous mistakes. Get
it? Name a character trait and there is a situation in golf that will reward,
or exploit negatively, whatever demon or virtue which lies in each individual
personality.
Will Rogers said, “I never met a man
I didn’t like.” Alan Massengale says, “I’ve never met a man that I didn’t know,
after eighteen holes of golf.”
The most famous golf walk off was of
course Bobby Jones at St. Andrews in 1921 at the Open. In the 3rd
round at the 11th hole he was in the bunker. And after four swats at it, he was still in
the bunker. “Cheerio old boys, I’m outta’
here,” Bobby said at the time. Or something
like that.
You see, the early Bobby Jones was
not the most gracious golf god who ever lived.
He was a petulant hot head. The
British Press said at the time, “Bobby Jones is a 19 year old boy. An ordinary boy.”
Rory McIlroy is no boy. But he has risen to number one in the world
at an astonishing young age. He’s 23
now. This means it hasn’t been the usual
development for him socially or personally at all. Unless you consider normal the fact that the
majority of his life has been spent hitting 100 buckets of ball a day since he
was knee high to a cat’s butt.
He’ll be fine if he will remember
what my father once told me on the golf course when I wanted to walk off. You see, my fiancé had just broken off a
relationship. (There are rumors McIlroy
is having female relationship difficulties, but who knows. It’s probably a combination of many factors).
I was playing like crap through nine holes.
And, as an aside, my father’s favorite thing was to play golf with his
son. This was not working out. So, at the turn, he asked, “What in the blue
blazes is your problem son?”
I told him about the girl. And I waited for his worldly, cuddly, sage understanding
and guidance through my tortured and obviously distraught demeanor. You know, maybe big hug or something?
Dad said quite succinctly, “Well,
son, that’s too bad. Hit the ball.”
I broke out in a laugh. And then I played a great back nine. There, in a few words, is the essence of life
to me. Just keep hitting the ball. Everything will work out. Right Rory?
