There are some big advantages to playing golf as a single.
When you play alone, your missed shots aren’t embarrassing, your cusswords go
unheard and you always finish in first place. Besides, if you’re like me, you’re
never really at a loss for companionship. Every time I play golf I’m joined by
at least eight other individuals. They don’t actually play with me—they play
within me. Yes, coalition forces have taken control of my game.
Max is a white-whiskered little man of about 60, clad in
olive lederhosen. He lives in a fourth-floor walkup at the top of my backswing.
Max came to me about 20 years ago, direct from the spleen of a Prussian colonel.
He speaks only two words—“kill” and “schnell”—which he shouts at
threshold-of-pain volume into my right ear just as I make the transition to my
downswing.
Polly pops onto the bridge of my nose each time I step to the
first tee. Perky as a brand-new flight attendant, she straddles my nostrils,
hands on her hips, looks me straight in the eye and reminds me what a natural
athlete I am. She assures me the string of double-bogeys last week was a mere
aberration, that I absolutely do not have the yips and that I’m about to play
the best round of my life. I worship that girl, love the way she makes me feel.
I just wish I could spend more time with her. Sadly, she tends to disappear by
about the third green. However, I will say this—Miss Polly Anna (that’s her full
name) is the only one of my playing companions I consistently beat.
Stanley sits in front of a small desk at the
base of my medulla, staring intently into the screen of a laptop. Bespectacled,
disheveled and eternally in need of a bath, he’s a science geek with little
interest (and zero ability) in golf. In fact, he hates the very thought of
exercise, and thus joins me only when I take a cart. Stanley’s passion pit is
the practice tee, where he pursues his research. As I attempt to hit a series of
mindless pre-round warmup shots, he brain-mails me a barrage of swing keys:
“Tuck the elbows!” “Make a full turn!” “Stay behind the ball!” “Belt buckle
toward the target!” If one of them happens to click, he immediately forces me to
put it through a five-ball trial, carefully recording and graphing the flight
and roll of each shot. If the swing key passes that test—i.e., it works on at
least three out of five—he screams “Latch!,” his signal for me to cease warming
up and take the tip immediately to the course. I am Stanley’s latch-key child.
