Only Yesterday: Golf

Golf is a funny game. For those who disdain the players or simply don't understand the attraction, no explanation will suffice. Nonetheless, a pastime that has survived in any recognizable form since at least the mid-1500's must have something very strong at its core that appeals to the spirit and soul of men (and, to a lesser extent apparently, women).

One Man's Passions . . . Guitars & Golf
Stonewall Jackson Memorial Cemetery, Lexington, Virginia

Having tried many times (with only modest success) to explain that appeal, I was delighted recently to come upon a brief story that illustrates, explicitly, in the life of one person, both sides of the mystery. 

One hot afternoon during the summer of about 1910 my father had come home from his law office and after the usual fifteen-minute chase of Nelly, our horse, about the pasture lot she was worked into a corner and captured after which she submitted to being harnessed to the surrey. My brother and I and three or four of our playmates with my father driving were on our way to Cave Spring for an afternoon's swimming lesson in the shallow water below the dam, known as Layburn's Dam. The horse plodded up the steep rocky road past Mulberry Hill and then along the north side of the golf links. A foursome of golfers were moving about on the other side of the fence.

"I don't see," said my father after we had passed the golfers, "how grown-up men can spend the afternoon hitting a little white ball around through the grass." We went on to Cave Spring and had our swimming lesson but it was one of the last ones we had because a few days later one of my father's friends who played golf persuaded him to try it. He did and from that day on he was, I believe, one of the most enthusiastic golfers that ever lived. He bought some clubs and joined the Golf Club and for the next nearly forty years he played every day that he possibly could. He played at all seasons and in all weather. Rain or shine it did not matter to him. Snow was the only thing that ever slowed him down. At that time it was against the law to play golf on Sundays, but on Sunday afternoons he went to the links and just walked around the course.

 Only Yesterday in Lexington, Virginia - John Seymour Letcher (1974)

This short excerpt also captures the soft and poignant regret of those left behind in the wake of a newly passionate golfer. I'm not that golfer, but I completely understand why he would want to just walk around the course on Sunday.