What would you call a person who took delight in whacking a tiny spherical object hundreds of yards toward a barely-visible goal? To make things more interesting, imagine that the ball had to be no more than 1.680 inches in diameter, couldn’t weigh more than 45.93 grams, and was aimed toward a hole 4.25 inches across. Would you call him a masochist, since he obviously relished the idea of causing himself as much frustration as possible? Or how about just plain, old, psychotic? He has obviously lost touch with reality and the rational limitations of human pursuits. By and large, however, your first thought would probably not be inclined to call him a golfer. But, alas, that is indeed what he would be.
My father is the epitome of this seemingly self-despising loon. On a surface level, he appears to be a well-balanced man: He works, reads, watches television and regularly gets together with his group of buddies. Unfortunately, what this superficial description leaves out is the object of all these pursuits. My dad may professionally be a dentist, but I know that’s just a clever disguise he has assumed after all these years to divert people’s attention from the true Gregory Sierminski, the soul behind the body, the golfer.
To return to the so-called “balance” in my dad’s interests, let me give you a virtual tour of my father’s office. To make things even more compelling, let’s make our visit in the middle of December. We’re walking up the steps of an unassuming brown building?are you with me??and step through the glass-paned front door. Upon entering, our attention is immediately drawn to the jolly Christmas tree in the corner of the waiting room. How nice, how festive, how … what’s this? What are these silly looking ornaments? Oh yes … they are variations on golf balls, golf bags, golf clubs, golf shoes, golfing Santas … you get the picture. Assuming you also took notice of the framed photo of the Three Stooges in full golf attire, let’s move on. Actually, in the interest of saving space and paper, I’ll summarize the rest of the building’s d?cor: golf, golf and more golf.
So my father comes home after completing a long day of work and, after dinner, decides to spend a relaxing evening on the couch with a book and some television. He’s quite the voracious reader and has plenty of books in his possession from which to choose; all he needs to do is walk upstairs and pull a volume from his bookshelf of golf titles. To make this process even simpler, he could choose a book from his meticulously catalogued list and then find it in its appropriate place on the shelf. (At this point I feel compelled to remind you that I am not describing a library in St. Andrews, Scotland, but rather my dad’s personal collection.) Having chosen his book for the evening, my dad can return to the couch and turn on the television. What luck! He doesn’t even need to switch the station, the Golf Channel has immediately appeared!
If he tires of the family room and needs a change of scenery, my dad heads down to the basement where he keeps what may just very well be his most prized possession, his golf net. This golf net is everything that its name implies: He can take full shots in the comfort of his own home without even needing to worry about shattering a window or other breakable fixtures. The net was a Christmas present from me a couple years ago, after his old one could no longer be patched and needed replacement. Like its predecessor, this net is also sporting an array of well-worn holes and will soon need to be traded in for a newer model.
The previous narrative assumes that the day I was describing was neither a Wednesday nor a Sunday, for those are entirely different situations. Those are his “golf days” (as if the reference distinguished them from any other day of the week). Since moving last summer to a house where our backyard abuts a golf course, one would think that my dad would relish being able to sleep a little later before leaving to make his 7 a.m. tee-time. Being a golf-lover, though, my dad doesn’t always revert to rational thinking and continues to leave the house an hour early so that he has ample time to practice on the driving range and chipping area.
I suppose if an obsession with a sport?I hesitate to call it a game?such as golf is my father’s biggest flaw, I can deal with that. I may not understand the appeal of spending three-plus hours hacking at a rubber ball with a thermoplastic liquid-filled center, but, hey, that’s just me. At least it usually makes shopping for his birthday and Christmas gifts a heck of a lot easier. However, he’s already given me a head’s up for this year that he hasn’t heard of any good, new golf books coming out in time for the holiday. I don’t know what I’m going to do.
Rachel Sierminski is a junior in the College. Her cable package at school does not include the Golf Channel.
