I find myself rethinking golf

I went golfing today, for the first time this year. And I liked it. I really liked it.

I've golfed off and on for about forty years now. My original clubs, well, the woods were real wood, real persimmon. They sit in the garage of a shared family home in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, waiting their next time upon the range. There were times where golfing was about just having fun with friends, times when it allowed me two extra curling games a year; times when I was out with my dad's youngest brother, my Uncle John. Those last times I am wholly and unashamedly sentimental about. The other times, eh, I was just kinda there.

So I never took golf seriously. But now, I'm beginning to take it seriously. Seriously because I'm starting to understand the pleasure of hitting a golf ball well.

A few times today, I hit a ball well. And man did it feel good. Not like hitting a baseball good, mind you. There ain't nuthin' like hittin' a baseball. But the sharp *ting* of a well hit golf ball off a tee? Well, it challenges that.

I think I can play this game, this golf, if I should start to take it seriously enough. I realize as I say that that I'm merely being drawn into the vortex. The golf sirens are calling to me, calling me to dash my ship against the sharp rocks on their dangerous shore. I know this. I knew it when I was on the green off the tee on a lowly par 3 and legitimately parred that hole.

I know this. But damn, their call is strong. And I was on the green off the tee.

Three more and out the door

It's coming: the end of the 2015-2016 curling season. A game tonight, a game tomorrow, and a game Saturday. Three more and out the door.

The season wasn't the best. But it wasn't the worst either. We should have done better in the Monday night men's league, but so it goes. Tonight, we play for third place in the Thursday Competitive league. We finished fourth last year, so no matter what happens we won't end up worse. In the Friday mixed league we play for the second half title but we need help. We must win, and the current first place team lose. Either way, okay.

Then curling wraps up Saturday with a 'swing and sweep'. That's where you both curl and golf, the scores are somehow tabulated (not by me; math makes my head hurt) and a winner is declared. It doesn't look as though the weather will cooperate; it may end up too cold and wet to hit the links. Either way, golf or not, then the hard part of the year begins.

We have to wait until October to curl again.

My favorite blog from 2015

December 31, 2015: the last day of the year. We're expected to write retrospectives today, right? Well, I'm not going to. I've looked back over what I've written during twenty-fifteen and decided I'd rather put my own spin on that practice. I'm reprinting my favorite blog from the year, first offered back in April. I hope you like is as much as I do.

-Marty Cosgriff

John Cosgriff and the Masters

I don't watch golf very often. But I always watch the Masters. Although I do find that I like the game more and more as I grow older, there's a part of me which still doesn't really see the allure. Hitting a small ball hundreds of yards into a cup maybe twice the size of that ball just doesn't seem a very entertaining way to spend an afternoon. Still, I find that golf and I have a history. Lately that's been played out through 'swing and sweeps', combined golf and curling tournaments. They're great fun, especially if, as a curler (as I am) it gets you two more curling games per season. I do look forward to them.

But more than that. My father's youngest brother, my Uncle John, liked to golf. He always bet something or other with a coworker on the outcome of the Masters. He and his boss would pick five guys alternately, and who had the winner won a sleeve of balls. I'm not sure who won most often. But I know my uncle was always proud of his picks.

I golfed with him many times years ago, when he was young and I was younger. We'd go out for nine holes after work many a summer's day. Those evenings were always good fun. If I could relive just one...we would joke and laugh, and simply enjoy the quiet and the game.

He was a lefty. That was fairly rare in golf at the time. His swing seemed unusual even to me, but for a duffer he was okay. I scored my only birdie to this date while golfing with him. The Eighth hole at Dearborn Hills, a 180 yard par 3, a Thursday night in an August the exact date of which escapes my memory just now. I made the green off the tee with a four iron, and hit a 25 foot putt which ran hard left to right right into the cup. I made him sign the scorecard to attest that I had birdied. He remarked, "No one will believe us, because I'm family". It was lightly drizzling as he signed the card under the glare of my car's headlight after that round. I still see him doing it, him down in a squat using the bumper for backing. Why do such things stay in our memories? But when he died, the first thing I did was dig up the scorecard and the ball that I birdied with.

When he had decided he was through with golf he gave me his left handed clubs. Several times I played rounds with them. If you have any idea how poorly I golf, you would know that it hardly mattered from which side of the tee I would address the ball. Might as well play lefty.

I kept those clubs for years. Then I bought a better-than-mine set of used right handed clubs (used better than I ever will), and decided to sell Uncle John's clubs at a yard sale. Who needs two sets of clubs, especially opposite sided ones, right? A young left handed guy practiced swung a few of them, decided that he wanted to golf enough so that it mattered that he ought to have his own clubs, and bought them.

I watched him walk away, dragging Uncle John's clubs behind on the cart which went with the deal. I felt a pang of remorse as the man disappeared with his new found treasure.

I sincerely hope that he has golfed well with them. And I wish I still had those clubs.