I was 10 the first time I swung a golf club. 

My dad stuffed my brother and me into his lime green 2-door Mazda and drove us to a field that was more weed-choked gravel than grass. I would later discover that most driving ranges did not evoke “whack the dude and dump the body” vibes. But money was tight and this was somewhere around Detroit, which wasn’t universally known for virgin fields waiting to be peppered with balls. 

Dad pulled an ancient set of golf clubs out of the trunk. They were mismatched, and the bag was a periwinkle blue that went out of style with bell bottoms. He must’ve picked it up cheap at a yard sale. Or borrowed it from a Siegfried impersonator. 

He paid for a couple of buckets of balls and handed us each an iron. Given he was relatively new to golf, too, his help wasn’t all that helpful. A few years later, his version of The Talk was likewise short on important details—“Don’t do it, and if you do, use a rubber.” Both bring to mind that old proverb:

Those who can, do; those who can't, teach; those who can’t teach, shrug because it's not their problem. 

Hitting a ball proved impossible. I attended parochial schools and thus was well acquainted with Jesus’ many miracles, but there’s a reason the Bible doesn't mention him hitting a ball with a 7-iron his first time out. 

Dad tried encouraging us. “You should get good at this. Golf is going to be the next big sport. You can get rich playing it.”

Maybe, but I liked my chances better as a clumsy, slow-footed white kid with a streaky jump shot. 

He didn’t bring us back to the driving range, either because we obviously hated it or because we were obviously lost causes. The thing was—he wasn’t wrong. Years later, Tiger Woods ushered in a new era of excitement and interest in golf, and got stupidly rich in the process. Seeing this—and Tiger’s father basking in his own 15-minutes—I wonder if my dad thought perhaps that could’ve been us in another life. Maybe he even could’ve pitched our Italian/Polish heritage as a notable mixed race, like Tiger’s; “sure, they look white, but you wouldn't believe what these two Polacks are capable of.” 

In high school we were forcibly relocated to Northern Michigan, where virgin fields are basically the only thing going for it. We eventually succumbed to the inertia of the place, and took actual golf lessons, and came to love the sport. 

The funny thing about playing golf is you suddenly get very interested in watching golf. Not for instructional purposes but aspirational wish fulfillment. That could be me, if only.

It’s the most approachable of all the sports, which of course is a lie. It only looks easy.