A lot of old people play golf and this got me wondering. Is golf just filling in time until you die? Hey, this may sound a harsh assessment, but I am getting to that age where I include myself in this category. Anyway, to a great degree, every human being is filling in time until their appointed time comes along. I mean, we live in an age where very few of us do jobs that really matter in any meaningful way. Sitting on your arse behind a computer screen at work is no world beating activity. Neither are most of the vocational roles that society and the economy has us doing in the 21C.

Golf A Game Played In God’s Waiting Room

Why not play bloody golf? Sure, it’s a silly game knocking that little white ball around a huge tract of land but life aint no logician’s codex either. It is an accident this multicellular life, seemingly not found in any other known realm of the universe. Does that make it special? Yeh well, they used to call my intellectually disabled nephew special. Words can be mucked around with to sound like whatever outcome those in power want them to. Golf is a game played in God’s waiting room.

Playing A Round Prior To Departure

If golf began as an activity played by shepherds whacking stones around near the beach in Scotland. Why did we end up with so many bloody rules in golf? The simple answer is money, because of wagering on the result. The inclination to bet on who did it in fewer strokes meant that rules had to be in place to deal with every eventuality. Golf has always been a game where a few bob have been wagered to make it more interesting. Rich folk used to bet on their nominated better player. Young Tom Morris was a favourite for this kind of action back in Scotland. Tom Morris Junior only lived until he was 24 and won the Open four times in the 19C – the first at the wee age of 17. He drank himself to death, I suspect, from a broken heart at the deaths of his young wife and baby.

Golf and death go together like assault and battery, like flowers at a funeral, and a last hoorah. That walk down the fairway may well be your last and the thought crosses your mind – make it bloody count! Counting, as we all know, is golf’s raison d’etre. Is golf just filling in time until you die? Are you just making up the numbers and counting the days? Remember to smell the flowers, as they say. Fore! Watch out you fucker. Nearly bloomin killed me.

Robert Sudha Hamilton is the author The Stoic Golfer.

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