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416 pages, Paperback
Published May 17, 2022
People who don't play golf grow to envy their golfing neighbors, admiring it as a nifty game you can play to a ripe old age. What they don't understand is that we don't keep playing because we can; we play because we don't know how to stop. It lands in our hands for just a moment before slipping through our fingers, and we grab for it again and again. It's a shell game, a music man, a three-card monte from which we can't walk away. Once in a while it glances back at us, and it is achingly beautiful. A siren? Perhaps. But those sailors at least got the closure of wrecking on the rocks. Golfers find the rocks and just drop another ball.
I woke up early the next morning, ready to lose golf balls at a Robert Trent Jones course called The Judge. It was an anchor on the RTJ Trail of courses that stretched across 'Bama, and a plaque by its first tee read PREPARE TO BE JUDGED. It was an absurd opening golf-shot, from a vaulted tee down to a sliver of fairway enveloped by bass-rich waters, and though I found dry ground, I quickly decided I wasn't in the mood to be judged. Hard for hard's sake was not only boring but idle architecture. Any novice with a pencil could draw an impossible golf hole, so I checked it off the list and moved on to Mississippi...