I’m looking out of my living room window on a morning in late November, and the sky is a uniform, dull gray. The Met Office website tells me today’s temperature along the East Lothian coastline will not exceed eight degrees Celsius, with winds gusting up to 30 miles per hour and rain predicted for the afternoon. I keep my slippers on and wrap myself in an extra sweater. Today, just like every day for the past two months, I’ve decided against playing golf.
When I was young, I played golf in the cold of winter almost as naturally as in the heat of summer. In fact, I vividly remember that the first full shot I ever holed – a 110-yard four-iron, for birdie – came in a Thanksgiving tournament on a bitterly chilly day in Georgia. As a student in St. Andrews I played frequently through the winter, the novelty of links golf being too exciting to pass up. As a newlywed living in London, my golfing opportunities were limited, and I would never refuse a tee time at any half-decent course even in the icy depths of January. And now that I again live in coastal Scotland, for the past few years I’ve represented my club in the East Lothian Winter League, enjoying competitive matchplay in the format – foursomes – most able to neuter the worst effects of bad weather.
This year, though, my attitude has somehow changed. I remain in reasonable physical condition, and my thirst for competition remains unquenched, but I have other climate-controlled outlets – curling, badminton – through which I can satisfy those urges. And I have come to fully realize that the game I have played between November and February is far inferior to the one I play the rest of the year. Ghastly weather aside, the winter golfer must endure inferior turf and sand conditions, bogus winter tees and (occasionally) greens, torso-inhibiting layers of extra clothing, and the arthritic sting of thinly hit iron shots. Even the most foolhardy winter warriors should agree that empirically, these are not good things. Driving snow or a waterlogged pitch might enrich a soccer match or football game with unusual thrills, but professional golf migrates south for the winter with good reason.
So I’ve not played any golf yet this winter. Like any recovering addict I feel withdrawal symptoms – anxiety and sadness that I’m becoming just another fairweather golfer, no longer willing to suffer for his art – but my wife interprets these as “sanity”, and I suspect she might be right. I’m sure I’ll help out my Winter League team once or twice, and maybe even enter the odd monthly medal out of habit, but I suspect I’ll hate myself for trying: golf is rarely played well when it is played sporadically. On the contrary, a long hibernation may be just what I need. By March, hopefully all of my bad habits and muscle memory will be long forgotten, and I’ll approach the 2014 season with a vigor undiminished by winter toil. This is what I tell myself.
As I finish this column, it is now an afternoon in late November, and the weather forecast was accurate – it’s raining quite heavily now. I think I made the right decision to stay inside.