For me, a 25 handicapper – even with mulligans – the Promised Land is but a fleeting illusion. They say it’s beautiful, lush and a joy to walk upon. It brings great comfort to all those who find it and enjoy its privileges. I have read much about the Promised Land – not only in the Bible, but also in Golf Digest. The Promised Land I speak of, of course, is the fairway.
In the world of golf there are the “haves”, those who have the ability to strike their balls such that they settle on the smooth, shortly cropped bent and Bermuda grasses. And there are the have-not’s, the duffers, such as yours truly, whose stray drives seem to prefer thicker vegetation – like broom sage, blackberry thickets and the weeds along the creek banks.
It is unfair that the snobby “haves” look down on the rest of us, as they stand by their balls springing up from the fairways as if they were resting on little tees. Meanwhile, the have-nots are thrashing around in what is called the rough, saying, “I don’t think it went this far. I marked it beside the sumac bush. By the way, how long can I look for my ball?”
Many in my class of golfers don’t know what a fairway looks like, except in pictures. It’s out there in the distance, a relatively thin swatch of grass just past the ladies’ tees. If you happen to connect with a golf ball and it decides to go straight, it is possible to land in the fairway. But like my style of golf, when your golf ball is prone to wander – exploring every inch of the golf real estate before you – chances are good you will never reach the Promised Land.
I often play at Old Trail in Crozet, a unique course with Zoysia grass fairways. The stuff is incredible. Zoysia is what they spread in front of royalty when fine oriental carpets are not available. There is no such thing as a bad lie on Zoysia. It’s as if little elves hoist your ball neatly upon a tuft of soft grass after each drive. Hitting off Zoysia is like hitting off a tee box at the range, and divots become unnecessary. Occasionally, my golf partner will let me take the cart out on the Zoysia fairways where I am prone to hop out and roll around in the grass like a Labrador Retriever, sniffing the ground and longing for one chance to be able to strike a 5-iron from this kind of fairway.
But alas, I am a have-not, destined to wander in the wilderness for another 30 years.