TPC IRL

Dave and I played the Yale course a while back. It was autumn. A windy day. The leaves were being pulled from the trees at a rapid rate. Yale is a hilly course. The greens, when cut close, are very difficult to hold. But it’s fun to play. The land, just the way it is, makes me homesick for New England, where Dave still resides.

After a round, and we play almost every day, Deb always asks about Dave. “How’s your brother?”

I always say, “I don’t know. He seems okay.”

“What’s happening with him?”

“Nothing. I don’t know. We didn’t really talk.”

“What’s going on with the boys?”

“I don’t know. Like I said, we didn’t really talk.”

That’s the beauty of golf. You don’t really have to talk.

Last week, we played TPC Sawgrass. It’s a Florida course, so you know you’re playing in a swamp. It’s a lot longer and more narrow than you’d think, watching the pros play it. I wanted to play that course before the final round of the TPC on Sunday. Just to get a feel for it. It’s a brutal layout. You can’t be leaving the ball off to the right. If you do, you’re in the water. Or the sand. Or the woods. You can pull it left though. If you don’t mind being in the water. Or the sand. Or the woods. It’s brutal. Even the greens are brutal. On that famous par-3 17th, both Dave and I needed 3 tee shots each. You’d think you’d be able to land a 140-yard shot on a green. But it’s smaller than it looks on TV. And, as I’m sure you know, it’s surrounded by water. And the wind, at least when we played it, was left to right, a perfect insult to my natural fade.

Later in the day, Äberg was leading the field. Until he missed a putt and then dropped one into the drink. Cameron Young finished with a 13 under. Thirteen under.

Dave and I have been playing a lot of golf this winter. On very demanding courses. Pebble Beach. St. Andrews. Pinehurst No. 2. Valhalla. Riviera. Bethpage Black. And a half-dozen links courses in Scotland, England, and Ireland. It costs $10 to $12 per course. And you can play all you want. Forever. Of course you need the Oculus headset, which goes for about $300. Plus the golf club adapter for the controller.

I’m getting better. Not 13-under-par better. But better. I watched a bunch of YouTube videos on how to cure my slice. How to get rid of my out-to-in swing. There’s the loop swing. There’s strengthening your left-hand grip. There’s turning the club over during followthrough. I’ve got it so I can drive it without any cut at all. Problem is, my ball never makes it more than 60 or 70 feet off the ground, which isn’t good when you need to carry a trap or a body of water or that gnarly European rough.

I added a few ounces of weight to the end of my adapter so I’d more closely match the weight of a golf club. I figured this would be a great summer for real golf on a real course, what with all the problems I’ve addressed over the winter. So, last weekend, since the temperature was in the low sixties, I made my way out to the Pleasant Valley driving range. Pleasant Valley isn’t Riviera. Or even Kapalua. It’s just a shitty little public course in Iowa. But it’s real. Which, I figured, is a plus.

Driving ranges have always made me feel good about my game. I look down the line at all the other golfers. I watch their swings. I see how they can’t seem to strike the ball cleanly. I see their desperate swipes. And I think, okay. Okay. I don’t suck as hard as those guys.

That’s what I used to think anyway. Until last weekend. I started with a pitching wedge, as always. It’s the easiest club to hit. Just a nice, easy swing. Like rocking a baby. Hit down on the ball. Nice and easy. I’m not a good golfer. But at my best, I can play a nice high, gently fading ball. We had a good strong wind at our backs. About 25 miles-per-hour. With that wind, in the past, I’d fly my pitching wedge about 140. With my new swing, however, the way I had it worked out, there would be no fade. So, who knows how far it will go?

I took a few warmup swings. The club felt heavy. Not only that, the weight was distributed differently from my virtual golf club. But I was sure that wouldn’t be a big deal. Just a little adjustment.

My first shot went about ten yards. I laughed to myself. At least it was straight.

My second shot went about ten yards. As did my third, fourth, fifth and so on. It’d be one thing to hit a pitching wedge ten yards, but it’s another when each time your club makes contact with the ball, it creates a loud, resounding boom. All the other hackers craned their necks to watch the hacker.

In times past, when I hit a bad shot, it’s eventually occur to me why that was. Ah, I’d think, I’m coming off the ball. Or, Ah, I’m too quick. Or my hips are opening up. Or I’m swaying. But on this day, with each shot booming like a cannon and then dribbling ten yards, I had no idea why. The sound, I think, was due to the club hitting the ball square on its north pole, and driving it directly down into the mat, which, in turn, clapped against the plastic base. But I wasn’t even sure about this. I tried to stay down, but my shot was the same. I tried to slow down. I tried to swing in a descending arc. But I couldn’t hit a ball. I could. Not. Hit. A. Ball.

I stopped trying halfway through my second large bucket. To make it worse, an old golf buddy of mine, whom I had texted on my way to the course, unbeknownst to me, had been watching me flail away.

“Those last few didn’t look that bad,” he said, apologetically. Then he stepped up and hit his pitching wedge about 150. Easy swing. Beautiful sound.

“Yeah,” I said. “They were, though.”

“Just keep hitting ‘em,” he said. “It’s early. You’re figuring it out.”

But I wasn’t. I didn’t. And I’m left with this demoralizing choice. I can either give up virtual golf — Pebble Beach. Tory Pines. Bay Hill. Harbour Town. — or give up golf.

This isn’t overly dramatic. This is the way it is. And the big problem is, I can’t see giving up playing virtual golf with my brother every day. It’s too much fun. But then, so is actual golf. IRL. I’d say. If I were a kid. And texting.

The loss of golf will be painful. No more warm summer evenings on the course. Playing till dark. No more cool mornings with your ball making telegraphic dots and dashes on the dew drenched fairway. No more hot dog at the turn. No more nineteenth hole.

My first son, Samuel, told me once that some of his best memories from childhood happened inside video games. And, you know, it’s beautiful inside that Oculus headset. I mean. It really is beautiful. It’s something, mid winter in Iowa, when the temperatures are below zero, to look out over those green, undulating links fairways. To watch those alto cumulus clouds cruise overhead. The smashing sound of those breakers. The birdsong. And the wind roaring. Who’s to say my memory of shooting four over on the Castle Course at St. Andrews is any less real than my memory of hacking it around at Finkbine Golf Course in Iowa City? One memory is every bit as real as the other, from my present vantage point.