Sitting still and pristine on the tee
(with “defy” at the core of its bind)
it’s a simple inanimate object
that embodies the angst of your mind.
Its logos are costly disguises ‑
Which is why you pay dear for a sleeve.
And devil? Or angel? You’ll just never know
till after your club face it leaves.
Just think of the shots you’ve let fly …
first you yell, maybe swear, then despair,
because deaf to your cursing entreaties,
The Little White Ball don’t play fair.
Oh, sometimes it lands in the short grass
where it can be happily found.
But mostly it lands where it loves to:
into ponds; behind trees; out of bounds.
Silly you … you think you are the master?
That you are the one in control?
Then why did your drive hit the cart barn
and your chip hit a telephone pole?
By now I think you get the lesson
and it’s one you can take to the bank …
you must be kind to The Little White Ball
to side‑step the skull and the shank.
Your handicap may be eleven.
Your handicap may be your head.
Or maybe it rests in the knee‑knocking tests
of those simple three footers instead …
Oh hell, go spend years on the range (!)
perfecting each least little thing …
Teach your hands to release just as easy as pie
like the ultimate Ernie Els swing.
You could mimic Tiger’s great skill and heart
or the genius of Arnie and Jack;
you can pray for the touch of Se Ri Pak’s hands
or Annika’s focus on track.
Buy a new set of clubs every weekend!
Spend your money and time with some pro.
Go ahead! (It’s all futile and pointless)
cause here’s everything you need to know:
Golf’s a witchcraft belonging to wizards
and a hell mastered only by saints.
It’s a rainbow plus quicksand plus terror
whose secrets are learned through your pain.
So the moral of this little ditty?
Well … whatever your game’s rise and fall …
first you MUST make nice with the Golf Gods,
then make peace with The Little White Ball.
C CINDA 2003