How Golf Becomes an Obsession

Growing up in Hawaii means being surrounded by some of the world's most renowned golf courses. Too bad I never used em. Unless of course you count living on the edge of one, trampling around at the age of twelve with my best friend who, like me, thought it was funny to wave around the white flag. We had no idea that this in any way indicated a sign of surrender to the annoyed athletes approaching.

My dad used to tell me I would love golf. Although I have to say that the lackadaisical days of lounging around the house watching young Tiger chase the white ball, I had absolutely no interest in actually playing the sport. I'd scoff at the suggestion of my father, saying, "Yeah, I'd rather go surfing."

Years later and miles away, the allure of the sport has finally enraptured me. Not to mention, the surf here is not quite as pleasant - indeed, it's a chore to strap on the wetsuit and dive into the dark abyss of the Oregon coastline.

The first time I even held a club was in a class I signed up for to get the last credit I need to graduate.. And instantly, I was hooked. It's probably because it's such a head game - something that takes a certain kind of mental Zen, if you will. I realized that my dad knew I'd eventually fall into this sport because it requires great persistence - and patience. I've got the persistent part down; still working on the patience in my 'Happy Gilmore' moments.

My boyfriend is what some might call a golf fanatic. And he's got the greatest excuse top play that any non-pro would: for work. Those hot summer days when he'd say, "I'm off to network with some new clients. I'll be back from the course in a few hours," stirred my curiosity, and I admit, a twinge of envy. You mean you get to go outside and play in the sun all day for your job, I would think, Gee tough life. And I want it.

So here I am. I've lost track of how many times I've gone to the driving range, and have coerced my boyfriend into buying whiffle balls for my hitting pleasure in the backyard. Every day I avoid the hazards of household chores to whack a pack of whiffle balls smack into the gutter. And then, due to my vertical limitations (read: short), I plead for him to dig them out.

M boyfriend was impressed by my (sometimes dogged) persistence. He bought me a used set for my (early) birthday (June 11). He knows, as I do, that I've been sucked in, and there's no going back.

I won't be waving that white flag again until I mean it, one hole at a time.