This afternoon I hit Val Halla with some girlfriends for some much needed golf (if you can call it that), laughter, swearing and beers. I'm wicked good at the last three, not so much at the first one. But it's fun and that's the important part, right? Because who doesn't enjoy chasing a little, stubborn, white ball around a finely mowed fairway, hacking away at it until it finally ends up on the green?
Hole #1 didn't set a very good tone for the evening. My score? A nine. After that hole, I was already exhausted. What? I have eight more to go? Thankfully, I pulled myself together for the next few holes. For me, that generally means I scored a five or a six or a seven. I'm happy with those numbers. I do not like nines. Or eights for that matter. And forget double digits. I'm definitely not a fan of double digit scores.
But you know what's great about golf? You can have the crappiest round in the history of the game and there's always that one shot or one hole or one moment that gives you this tiny sliver of hope that you really don't suck as much as you think you do. I might have had a couple of those tonight. A six-foot one-putt, a bogie on a par three where I missed the green or just making it over that swampy area that eats so many of my balls. Little things.
I'll never claim to be a great golfer. Hell, I'm not even a good golfer. But I love it and I have a blast doing it. There's just something about the pristine cuts of a golf course and the fresh air and the feel of the club hitting the ball when you hit it just right and making that fabulous shot that keeps you coming back for more.
So I'll keep making my trips to the driving range to combat the nasty slice I can't seem to get rid of. And I'll keep getting out on the course to see if this is the time when it all (or at least some of it) clicks. But I'm definitely going to need some more lessons. *sigh*