365 True Things: 361/Golf

I had dinner this evening with my good friend Grant, at the Pebble Beach Lodge. Pebble is famous for its golf courses. Indeed, the eighteenth hole, so said Grant, was right outside the window as we dined.

I have never played golf, or been tempted to. My father was a golfer, though. He had a weekly greens date with professor friends from UCLA. They walked; they never used a cart. It was their exercise. My father also practiced putting with a silly brown machine, and he whacked a practice ball in the backyard, perfecting his swing.

Every year here in Monterey (or, strictly speaking, at Pebble) the AT&T—formerly, Bing Crosby—Pro-Am arrives in the early spring, and people go in droves to . . . watch. people. play. golf. I do not understand the fascination. Especially when I'm sitting in backed-up traffic as a result.

That said, I did enjoy looking out over the beautifully kept fairways, greens, sand traps, and bordering woods this evening, and watching the odd late-afternoon foursome finish up their eighteen holes. I can almost see the appeal (of playing, not watching). One has to cultivate serious focus: it's a zen sport. And it's a full-body sport. And it is nice to be surrounded by green.

Grant and I and a couple of friends have talked about going to the Peter Hay nine-hole course in Pebble Beach, just for a lark. For me, it would have to be a lark: I have no idea how to swing a golf club. But in the right company? It could be fun. Or at least funny. Maybe one of these days we'll do it.