Seven Days in Utopia by David L. Cook

Author:David L. Cook [Cook, David L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-310-33619-8
Publisher: Zondervan
Published: 2011-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

8. HICKORY STICKS

On day six, I drove down the one-lane entrance to the Links that had become so familiar this life-altering week. It was a “windows down” sort of road. You wanted to experience it, not just drive it. Unlike the entrances to the modern-day master-planned communities and country clubs, this stretch of road was flanked by the authenticity of life. Nothing was imported. Without the help of a gardener, native wildflowers bloomed in concert with the natural grasses and vines. Sensing their short-lived splendor, wildflowers sprang to life with a flurry and lived life greatly, knowing the slower-growing grasses would survive them in the coming heat. Cattle stared you down with curiosity while chewing their cud, oblivious to the world outside of their fence. The century-old rusted barbed-wire fence served its purpose faithfully, held together by the stoic rot-proof cedar posts born in the valley. Obsessed by failure earlier in the week, I had been too preoccupied to experience life beyond the surface, missing what Monet lived to paint.

The lane eventually gave way to the pothole-laden parking lot shared by both the cemetery and golf course. I imagined the lot occasionally served both patrons grieving the loss of a loved one and those bereaved over failing once again to close the deal on the inward nine. I could attest that the line sometimes blurs between three-putting the eighteenth and losing a distant relative. The game had an insidious way of clouding a man’s perspective.

As I stepped out of the car, the smell of freshly mown Bermuda grass hung heavily in the air. This sweet fragrance brought thousands of memories to mind. The smell is intoxicating to all who play the game, an opiate accompanied by eternal hope. Each time a golfer steps to the first tee surrounded by this tantalizing fragrance, he stands at even par. We all own par on the first tee. Hope is eternal. It’s on the 18th green that one has to face the music. How similar to life! A parking lot serving both a cemetery and golf course seemed only appropriate.

I had come so far since my last round, a forgettable saga to be sure. Though it wounded my pride, my will was still intact. Golfers who rely on pride will eventually tuck their tails and look for a game that is less revealing.

I was chomping at the bit to test the new me. But I can’t say that I had great excitement for playing this course. Though I looked forward to my time with Johnny, I was a little embarrassed for him as I surveyed the layout. This was, in the truest sense of the word, a minimalist nine-holer. I wondered who would actually pay to play here. The only way my friends would play this track would be with a case of Lone Star longnecks in tow. It truly was a goat ranch.

The small crowned tee boxes looked like large sea turtles strewn across the landscape. With each rainstorm, erosion had softened the edges of the once rectangular surfaces.

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