With the school year back in full swing, my golf is largely reduced to quick nines on the way home from work. And yet, if anything these rounds seem so much more vital than those at the height of summer. Fall is returning, the leaves are turning and in Michigan winter and snow can come crashing down at any moment. So with each round I play, it feels as though I have stolen yet another long march on my enemy Old Man Winter.
The tragedy of all this is that it is invariably in the fall when I begin to play my best golf. Today, I hit fairways and greens and putted with the casual air of knowing that the ball would trace a line of its own accord to the hole. I was relaxed and confident and enjoyed myself thoroughly.
On rounds such as these, I try not to think of what lies ahead, but as I write and reflect compulsively, there’s no room for deception. As I write this in my notebook, I’m sitting on a bench on the seventeenth, waiting for the twosome ahead and I notice several trees that have lost their summer green. The temperature is in the sixties. The signs are there. Soon the flurries will fly and I’ll face another long winter dark.
I had better enjoy the golf while I can.