The Simple Joys of Golf

written by Kevin Summers, April 2003

I love golf balls. The great poet T. S. Eliot did not. He once wrote a poem in which he portrayed Western civilization as represented by "the asphalt road and a thousand lost golf balls." He must have had a wicked slice to lose so many. He may have been a better writer - well, it's not even arguable - but I've managed to retain a single-figure handicap for two decades. What was your best, Thomas Stearns?

But back to balls. I love them so much I go searching for them. I find it therapeutic. It calms my savage breast (something to do with my putting). My in-laws have a holiday house close to the fourth fairway of a coastal golf course. I search for balls that have exited the fourth. Let me tell about the course and the fourth. This is a lovely links layout exposed to a rough stretch of ocean. Windless days are rare. Situated on a sand peninsula, the course soaks up any rain and is always playable. Though not long, it requires a keen golfing brain. This has always been a personal shortcoming, so I rarely excel there. Upon completion of yet another wretched round, I rue the over-use of the driver and the insistence upon a high (and wind blown) sand wedge approach rather than a sensible five iron chip.

The fourth is the first real test for the dedicated golfer. From the back tee it stretches 420 yards. One cannot see the small green as the none too generous fairway tends from right to left. For the right hander, a delicate draw is the best option. Since I've never played with a lefty who didn't slice, this is their sort of hole.

Now, here's the rub. Left of the fairway is out of bounds. A ten foot wire fence extends the length of the hole. Once a ball has traveled beyond the fence, the owner can do no more than wave goodbye and trudge to the bag for another ball. And another thing - do you know many weekend club golfers who approach a daunting driving hole and say to their playing partner "I'll just aim for the centre and mould one a few degrees around the corner."? In their dreams. As for the lefties … well, let's face it, they're pretty lousy golfers (not you, Mr. Weir, Mr. Mickelson). No holes favor them.

So, whenever I holiday near this course I can't wait to stroll into the public bushland adjacent to the fourth. This is where my terrier, Lottie, comes into play. If I say "Look - ball!", she immediately begins a search mission. It's better if I convey this instruction at the side of the fourth rather than in the car on the way to the holiday house as the wife gets a little testy at these practice drills. Nonetheless, Lottie is a diligent searcher for balls and - I have no idea why - she chooses not to turn them into golf ball gristle but rather drops them gently at my feet. While I must add that I'm no slouch in the search department, knowing the most popular landing areas, I'm constantly amazed to find balls less the twenty yards from the tee. Now that's scary.

This being a salubrious club, though welcoming of visitors, one can always rely on the quality of the errant balls. No two dollar specials here. No cross-outs. Nothing yellow or pink. Just pure white beautiful golf balls of decent quality. After Lottie and I gather our spoils, we return home to give them a decent clean and a thorough check-up. I'm afraid I'm a bit particular and even a slight scuffing of the surface means a trip to the reject bucket. And there they are, the remaining shining beauties, set out in front of me at the dining table. I stare at them with unalloyed pleasure.

When I was twelve, I had my first round of golf. I walked to the two miles to the only local public course, hired a six-club set from the pro shop and hacked away - for one hundred and eighteen. But I recall in great detail my par three at the tenth. By some miracle I hit the two-wood (remember them?) to the green one hundred and ten yards distant and two putted. My most vivid memory, however, is the ball I hit. Before I set off that morning, my mother presented me with two lovely balls in their shining green packets. She bought them at the local bike repair shop (well, he ran a mixed business). They were, I discovered later, the best balls on the market. For a poor family, it was quite an expense. Thanks, ma.

In those days balls were, though beautiful, rather less flamboyant than now. My sixties collection - why should you be surprised that I garner them? - lack the information so indicative of our present orbs. There might be an occasional "cut-proof" or "top-pro" but not too much to get excited about. There was the odd exception: I have a 1967 ball that mysteriously boasts a "2002" on its skin. Was it meant to remain in play for this period? Was it capable of being struck that many times? Only the golf gods know.

A few balls were quite prescient. Scratch away the dirt of forty years and you might find "distance" and "pro-explosive". They were the beginnings of a weird and wonderful trend. These days one cannot find a ball that fails to tell you both everything and, to the average player, nothing. It's quite a feat. As a connoisseur of balls from the side of the fourth hole I know this.

Here's a recent sample from my last holiday: Titanium is still a popular element of many balls that tend to be harder in composition. The one before me boasts a "Double T". This is reassuring - I'd hate to play a single T - but what does it mean? It may stand for Tungsten which means a non-corrosive ball with a high melting point. If you play at the Mount Vesuvius Public Links or the Mauna Loa Country Club then this is the ball for you. I also found an "Extreme Titanium" and one that says "Titanium Straight Distance". Needless to say, I have promoted the latter to my bag.

Some balls, I'm certain, are designed to confuse. What on earth could be meant by "Taz-Lng"? Am I capable of discerning the properties of a "Multilayer" compared to those of a "Elasticore" or a "Steelcore"? Is "Super Soft" better than Super Feel"? And what about numbers? They're everywhere - from 00 (OK, maybe that's not a number) right up to 392. And color codes? Choose from black, red, blue, yellow. It's like playing pool. I'm looking forward to the day when Lottie drops an "Unbelievably Long-Straight, Super Soft Feeling, Multi-Element, Multi-Colored, A-Z, 46666588" at my feet.

I'll clean it and look lovingly at it and want to head off to my club to try it out. And you know what? When I play it I dare say it won't make very much difference to my game. If I'm playing well I'll love it. The following week, as I hack about in the trees, I'll conclude that, no, it's not the pill for me and retire it to the far reaches of my bag. The truth is, I don't have the skills to point to one ball and declare that it's right for me. I'll just keep hitting whatever decent looking ball comes my way, never mind the imprints.

I don't really care. It's the searching that is so satisfying. Just me and the dog shuffling about in the wild. Of course it's nice to get something for nothing but it's much more than that. To me, the gathering of all types of balls promising to do all types of things to one's game adds to the mystery of golf. And for a short time I feel like a kid again. I can't wait for another visit to that fourth hole.

Home