Golf's Holy Week: The Metaphor of the Masters

Golf's Holy Week: The Metaphor of the Masters

In a sports-saturated culture like the U.S., people compare themselves to the games they like to play. Reading the newspaper, magazines, television, even sermons use sports to illustrate their points of view. Businessmen refer to moving their players around the chessboard of the market; using the “team” analogy in almost every presentation about their groups.

The Masters®

Bobby Jones (co-founder) on the course

If there is a “holy week” in golf’s religious calendar this is the week. We’ve hosted the PGA Tour® in Houston and all of golf’s attention now focuses on Augusta, Georgia and the Masters® which is the first and most prestigious major tournament; a tradition unlike any other. Most golf fans consider this the official start of golf season, like NASCAR®’s Daytona 500; and they worship Augusta as some sort of mythical Shangri-La location, like mecca to where all golfers hope to ascend. My two favorite Masters tournaments were 1984 and 1995 both won by Texas Longhorn Ben Crenshaw in dramatic fashion; yet first time winners Larry Mize (1987) and Phil Mickelson (2004) were the most remarkable and rewarding for the players as professionals.  

I’ve previously written a blog post about golf (August 2011):  http://bit.ly/1qdrHkV

I look forward to watching the Masters® broadcast over the weekend, in part because it includes so few commercials. Even though they appear on the same network, seemingly every game-break during MarchMadness® necessitated another loud advertisement. Everything about the Masters® telecast radiates the soft pastel beauty of an azalea spring; even the music, narration, and camera angles. (Full disclosure: this is the first time I’ll watch it in full-HDTV!)

From the concessions (burger, chips, and a beer for $6.50), to the bathrooms (all have attendants), to the pro shop (ship directly from UPS next-door), and the immaculate condition of the grounds (no cart paths), the event exudes pure southern class more than any commercial sporting venue. Many consider this tournament the highest priority for viewing in the entire year of sports; more important than the SuperBowl®--put simply, because of its “old school” charm.

Like chess, with its distinctive board, players, and strategic moves; golf involves fighting against an opponent in an intensely mental competition. I propose that golf provides an excellent canvass on which to paint the metaphor of life; but it is difficult game to embrace.

As a family man, golf extracts a certain amount of guilt as a result of dedicating half a day to the game. It’s inconvenient, expensive, and elitist. By elitist I don’t mean snobby, but the fellowship of golfers is not broad like sports we all play as youngsters. Like scotch, one develops a taste for golf later in life; however it is a “human” game with great historical significance.

Although many complain about its archaic and cumbersome format and rules, the handicap system gives an egalitarian opportunity for any player to challenge any fellow golfer to a match. Each golfer is equally weighted against the other based on the difficulty of the individual holes and how many shots the weaker player is given. It’s pretty cool.

After a long time apart, I re-acquainted myself with golf last October on a beautiful Sunday when all conditions were right for a game. KHOU-TV ran a story about the old Gus Wortham Park falling into disrepair and the city’s intent to re-organize the golf course or even demolish it. My family was out of town and the weather was perfect. The story provided me with the opportunity to learn some local history and get some casual exercise as well.

The city bought this course from the old HCC in 1972, and I curiously drove far into east Houston to find this historic site, originally designed in 1908. I suspected that it would be a classic styled shorter course, with cousins in Fort Worth, Austin, Oak Cliff, and Hermann Park. Besides, wasting another Sunday on the Texans or Cowboys did not seem like the best use of my time. The day provided a serene atmosphere and an enjoyable round; nature’s beauty combined with man’s ingenuity. The quiet solitude, the fall breeze, the beautiful pastoral setting; all combined for a therapeutic session of reflection and escape.

I decided to re-approach golf with lowered expectations. My game is weaker with no practice and ancient equipment, my attitude was simple: it’s a nice day, just go play! I lean toward hitting range balls for stress relief, my performance never exceeds inconsistency, flashes of brilliance, or the perfectionism bred by watching too much televised professional golf. My conscious goal was to learn the course by studying its terrain, grass, and greens; as well as walk the course in the pure golf tradition, taking care not to compare myself to any other golfer on this beautiful day. Secretly, I wanted to see the amber sunset over the last green as I finished the round, but I wasn’t sure I could finish all 18-holes that evening. Other than that, I held no agenda for this fresh round of golf.

One can learn about golf at an early age in “Junior Golf;” it’s like Sunday school—basic and easy to consume, but fundamental to proper mechanics. Even so, golf and life get more complicated when you get out onto the course and each shot presents risks & rewards, challenges & hazards. Learning the game early in life doesn’t guarantee future success, but like the scriptures admonish, raise a child right and when they grow up they will not depart from the Lord’s ways.

I resisted the innate urge to focus on completing tasks successfully. After a life of competition, the meticulous score-keeping of golf would naturally attract me, right? Yet, it isn’t a perfectionist’s game—they left the course long ago. Golf in all its complexity and seriousness is a game of grace. Like life, for those of us in the big, competent, average middle, golf reflects the ceaseless requirement of circumstances in life requiring mercy, patience, and forgiveness. 

Simple elegance or refinement of movement describes the subtle “grace” of a golf swing. I mean grace as a temporary exemption, a reprieve from the harsh criticism deserved for plunking a ball right in the water hazard. Grace in golf holds the hope that the next shot will be better, and finishing the round successfully generates smiles and the peace of mind enjoyed from simply playing the wonderful game on a pretty day. Grace is good for us, so golf is good for us. I keep trying this difficult game both for the good of the game and for the good of me!
 
Golf is like life in that every day is like every hole or every shot; it must be embraced one step at a time, and we cannot lose focus of our own vision, focus, or swing. Without concentration and balance, along with rhythm and confidence, I tend to rear back and hack at the ball with questionable results. The beauty of golf’s structure is that even after the worst hole, the score is written on the card and you proceed to the next hole. All the previous good or bad is forgiven and forgotten. [Jack Nicklaus, after making a quadruple-bogey 7 at the 12th hole of Augusta in 1991 and then making four consecutive birdies, said: "You have to put such things out of your mind."]

Each shot requires individual consideration and execution just like every day of our lives. The past is gone, the future uncertain; all that exists is the shot before you right now. Alistair Cooke said, “Golf is an open exhibition of overweening ambition, courage deflated by stupidity, skill scoured by a whiff of arrogance.” I’ve always remembered the great courses and the good shots, even years later.

“What makes the Masters different from the other 3 majors? Every shot was a summation of every shot played in my whole career. As fans, or as an announcer, one senses that. We very rarely see quick, careless swings at the Masters. Poor shots, yes, but never lax ones. Only the Masters brings that out.”  --Nick Faldo as told to Jim Nantz

Each hour is a swirling storm of thoughts, feelings, desires, etc.  Some are good, some are bad, like golf rounds with sweet shots and balls in the water hazard.  The rules of golf established by the Royal and Ancient Golf Club at St. Andrews Scotland are similar to God’s established moral standards, telling us which actions are good and which are bad.  Romans 7 says we should resist the bad impulses and cultivate the good.  A person's feelings vary hour-by-hour, just as my mood changes every shot and every hole on the golf course; yet they don’t change the standards of the game, even when I desperately want them to.

Character in life and golf is doing what is right when no one is watching; golf’s intense culture of self-regulation, and long held gentlemanly standards reflect daily life as much as any game I’ve played. The final day of The Masters® Tournament provides heightened drama: golfers' caddies traversing the back-nine like sherpas, competitors matching birdie for birdie with shot after shot. The greens of Amen Corner, with undulations and tricky pin placements call out for shots like the "Sirens," living on three small, rocky islands enticing golfers, but ultimately causing them to crash their ships into them, sinking their hopes for winning. ##

Scattershooting:

Dan Jenkins, covering the Masters® for his 63^rd year:

"I can only tell you that eggs, country ham, biscuits, a pot of coffee, a morning paper, a table by the window overlooking the veranda and putting green, listening to the idle chitchat of competitors, authors, wits and philosophers; hasn't exactly been a torturous way to begin each day at the Masters all these years." (end quote)

The Masters®

[2014 Tournament Facts:

• This is the 78th Masters Tournament
• 97 players were invited to play this year (six are amateurs)
• 25% of the players have never played this tournament before
• The favorite to win, Tiger Woods will miss the tournament this year for the first time since he was an amateur...
• Defending champ: First-time winner Adam "Ozzie" Scott (only 3 winners repeated)
• It is the only major where a winner hasn't shot in the 60s for all four (4) rounds in victory
• Coverage Thursday and Friday on ESPN
• Coverage of the final two rounds is on CBS
• Wall-to-wall coverage on Westwood One and SiriusXM satellite radio]

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Double feature: episodes 8 & 9 of the storm chaser saga...

Fiction ripped from the headlines... ©Mark H. Pillsbury

"Texas Remains a Tinderbox": http://goo.gl/R0psZ

"Wildfires cause Fatigue": http://goo.gl/hhBUi

"More Firefighters arriving by Air": http://goo.gl/7ZSqI

"Obama grants Texas appeal for Wildfire Disaster Declaration": http://goo.gl/Fzz9B

Part VIII: The Maze

Swiftly moving through the dense green maze towards another opening, Clay trudged farther in front of the storm chasers, to the point they eventually lost the link to his lead. They were not holding onto each other hand-to-fin like in Devil’s Throat, but at least there was visual connection. Smoke obstructed their peripheral vision, the searing heat and impenetrable forest squeezed the life out of them, and ultimately Clay went left and they turned right, leaving them alone in a clearing. Abruptly, they turned another chapter.

“Claaaaaay-tooarrrr!” Rick yelled forcefully more than once hearing no reply.

“God, where did he go?!” he asked Jessica.

Rick held Jessica’s hand while fleeing but somehow lost contact with his cousin for just an instant, the next thing he knew they were separated. They were devastated for losing their escort; Clay’s strength had been a lifeline.

“Should we stay here to see if he circles back?” Jessica asked.

Rick felt exhausted and confused, “Jess, let me think for a second; I don’t know what to do right now.”

“We need to find Clay, let’s go back to the spot when we split,” Rick said. Jessica did not want to return to the forest, but she understood Rick’s concern.

Retracing their steps seemed harder this time, Rick was not sure where they diverged, but he kept yelling Clay’s name, hoping for some response. Disoriented, they were lost inside of an isolated portion of Liberty County surrounded by wildfire without any viable tools to alleviate their dilemma. Circling broadly for almost an hour, becoming more depleted mentally and physically, their diving school training helped a little, but a creeping, debilitating, panicked vertigo overcame their efforts to stay in control.

“I have to stop, Rick!” Jessica pleaded. “This is insane. We aren’t going in the right direction.”

“You stay here I have to go find Clay.” Rick vowed, wild-eyed, weary.

“Rick, stay with me, puhlease!?” Jessica was in tears, insisting as she sat on a log. “Are you going crazy because of smoke inhalation?” “We cannot split up, Rick. All three of us will die alone!”

Rick and Jessica sat on a log, bereft of a response to this incredible challenge. Their relationship frayed in this crucible, fatigue reducing them to cornered beasts rather than reasonable young adults, their adrenaline-rich supply of courage used-up. For a couple that had faced huge storms, man’s oldest friend/foe brought them to their knees.

“I love you so much, Jess, I could never leave you.” “Whatever happens here, I want you to know that I love you.” Rick was crying or the smoke made his eyes water, it did not matter; Jessica buried her head in Rick’s arms and they sat defeated, but together.

Ironically, Rick wondered how all the twisters in tornado alley had not brought them closer, but now this wildfire forced them to confront their mortality, priorities, and love’s bond. All he wanted was to take care of Jessica and keep them safe. For once he yearned to live in peace as a family. As he enjoyed their close touch a fierce hot wind blew through the forest, and they stood-up immediately knowing another escape route was closed.

To their flank, they supposed from the west, all their senses told them the wall of fire was descending on them so instinctively they set off in the opposite direction. They were storm-chasers after all, and when the storm turns your direction the first reaction is to be nimble.

Going through the clearing and one more dense section of forest did not lead them to another road or passage to safety; instead they found themselves in another smoky chamber, where Jessica started to falter due to breathing too much smoke. They stopped again.

“I feel like I’m choking Rick, and the smoke is making me light-headed.” “Let’s stop now,” she said firmly.

“OK, babe, but we have to try to find a farm road again,” Rick responded, “maybe we can catch an emergency vehicle coming by, they have to be out here fighting this fire!”

Rick lost track of time, barely thinking about Clay anymore. He worried that he would have to carry Jessica out of the woods. He was exhausted, but he would do anything at this point to save her.

“Jess, let me carry you if you can’t go,” She was woozy and sitting limply against a tree. Rick gathered her up in loving embrace, going further toward what he hoped was a roadway. He could feel Jessica lose consciousness intermittently, but he continued.

In the distance they heard a faint, whirring siren and quickly moved that direction, finally reaching a narrow thoroughfare. Rick and Jessica fell into the middle of the road, not “planking,” but on one knee gasping for air. Overjoyed to see an emergency vehicle racing their direction, Jessica collapsed in Rick’s arms again. Laughing and crying together, it seemed that even though the raging fire and thick smoke were imminent, they again dodged nature’s onslaught.

“Hop in the back, we’re going to meet a supply helicopter near here!” The county fire truck was a brilliant red, with a bed full of equipment and two sooty, charred heroes in the front of the cab. Rick and Jessica did not take time to ask questions or explain, but immediately Rick thought of his cousin Clay.

“God, Jess, what’s gonna happen to Clay in that forest? It’s like hell in there!” Rick was concerned.

Jessica, too stunned to answer, could barely breathe; her normal respiration reduced to a mere wheeze. She was elated to be through devil’s throat once again.

Part IX: The Rescue

photo credit: Washington DNR

The stretch of burning trees broke for the first time in miles. As the scarlet fire vehicle pulled up, men in bright orange suits tried to ensure a gargantuan transformer didn’t burst into flames like the rest of the forest. The firefighter spoke into his walkie-talkie in order to gain clearance into the landing area. More uniformed helpers rushed over with water and aid for the two exhausted storm chasers.

The yellow rescue helicopter descended, chopping the smoky air, signalman waving wildly at the targeted destination well clear of the transformer wires.

“Hold on just a little longer, Jess. Copter’s landing and we will get outta here soon,” Rick urged, trying to motivate Jessica as the supplies were transferred off of the yellow bird. Fighting wildfires took manpower, and supplies constantly replenished by aerial support.

image: North Carolina

Chief of the Operations came up hurriedly, ordering them onboard. Rick thought it was odd that he didn’t ask them what they were doing in the middle of the smoldering Liberty County forest; nevertheless he grabbed the man at the door of the copter and told him they couldn’t leave yet. “You don’t understand Sir, but my cousin’s in the middle of that fire! You gotta do something about—” Rick was cut off by the foreman.

“Son, you either get on that helicopter now or wait for the next one, and I can’t guarantee when that will be, I will notify my men in the field to be on the lookout for your relative. Give me a description.” This put Rick in the position of having to choose between evacuating Jessica and staying to search for his cousin. He knew what he had to do.

To be continued in episode ten…

©Mark H. Pillsbury & ©Eliza C. Pillsbury (composed as a work of fiction 23 July 2011)