This has got to be the worst time of the year for Michigan Golfers.
As the landscape outside has been turned into a frozen tundra, we now are far enough away from autumn that the last drive and putt are but a faded memory. Spring, on the other hand, seems no more near that it did when the first snowflake flew.
To compound the misery, it’s currently five degrees outside. I went out to shovel the snow off the driveway and in fifteen minutes darn near got a case of frostbite. So much for global warming.
I’ve been consoling myself by studying the latest GolfWorks and Golfsmith club component catalogs. My sticks don’t need new grips, but I may change them anyway. And although I can’t really justify it, I’ve considered building a new set of irons—or at least a new driver. There’s a neat new 460cc titanium scoop back model in the GolfWorks catalog that’s caught my eye.
The Buick Invitational and Pebble Beach tournaments these last two weeks have helped. When everything I see outside is frozen and white, a glimpse of green—however remote—is a welcome change. But at some level it just compounds the misery. I envy Californians—that is, until they have a wildfire that burns down half the state, or an earthquake, or mudslides, or smog alerts or a drought.
Ok. So I don’t envy Californians.
In years past, I’ve eased the midwinter blues by reading a good golf book or three. Reading about golf is, after all, the next best thing to playing it. But that too has fallen by the wayside. To renew my teaching certificate, I have to take earn six new college credits, and right now all my reading time is focused on the history of medieval England. Right now, I can’t tell you who’s leading in FedEx Cup points, but I can tell you the names of every Saxon, Norman and English king from Aethelraed the Unready to Richard III.
I’m a mess. It’s a wonder Mrs. GolfBlogger can stand to live with me.
A crazy plan is forming in the back of my mind. I’ve got a week off at the end of February—what the school district calls midwinter break. In my golfing fantasies, I just hop in the car and drive south on I-75 until I find a place where the grass is green—probably Tennessee. I stay overnight at a cheap motel, and play 36 holes the next day. One more night in a hotel, and I head back home. Three days. 36 holes. There’s even a website called Golf-I75 that encourages such madness.
Anyone want to meet me in Knoxville?