By Mary Ann Cook
I used to think I had an even temperament. I was a newspaper editor with a chronically understaffed staff. Understaffed as in one staff member. Staring disaster in the face was a daily occurrence, sometimes an hourly event. Part-timers would forget to show up at meetings they were supposed to cover, a terrifying hole would appear where the lead story should have been, the headline machine would break down--that sort of crisis. But a cool head and plenty of patience and flexibility would solve those problems.
Those were the glad tidings for those of us inside the mayhem. As for those outside: Well, every offbeat character in the community eventually finds his or her way into the local newspaper office. So I was used to dealing with anyone with an ax to grind coming into the office.
I would set aside some time (what choice do you have at that decibel level?), listen attentively and try to assuage the problem. If it was a valid concern, I assigned a story on the issue. If it wasn't, I tried to suggest alternatives. Just listening would help the smoke to clear, the noise to abate. Again, patience and calm carried the day. I had plenty of practice at work in dealing with crises.
And I was married to a Difficult Person--one of those whom there is no pleasing. A marathon hostess once confided, "I always wanted your (ex) husband at my parties. He livened things up, kept people agitated and moving around, paid attention to the wallflowers. But after half an hour, I was counting the minutes until he would leave." A nice place to visit, but you wouldn't want to live there--sort of a metaphor for the marriage.
So you see, I was accustomed to dealing with frustration, dismay and seemingly insurmountable challenges both at home and abroad. To each hurdle in my path I responded with unfailing grace, good humor and an even temper. I thought those three qualities were an essential part of my nature, ingrained, you might say.
And then I began to play golf.
When I first started, the only thing I could do very well was putt. Even though I was an embarrassment the rest of the way around the course, on the green I could hold up my head with the more experienced. In my own mind, at least, I became a fine putter. If others were unaware of this fact, I generously shared the knowledge. I gave tips to those who had played for years, not just the few months I had held a putter.
And then one sunny day I missed an easy putt. Without even realizing what I was doing I let fly the putter in an uncontrollable rage. The club was high overhead before I was aware I had flung it, propelled into flight with all the venom in my soul. Although it didn't injure anyone in the party, you can imagine what it did to the pampered green. A visible imprint of a putter was there for all the world to see. The image of that indentation is still etched in my mind, even though it has been erased from the green for 30 years.
As time went by I began to blame that missed putt on a pebble or weed. If an invidious lump hadn't been in the line between ball and cup, I would have made that putt.
Besides being perennially sunny and calm, I know I have no trace of the competitive gene in my DNA. But if someone in my foursome hits a longer drive than I do, even if that person is a rank beginner--no, especially if that person is a rank beginner--I refuse to share in the bonhomie of a successful launch from the tee.
"The tee has been moved forward a considerable distance," I point out. Ergo, the drive really isn't as long as was thought. Not even as long as the player's usual drive, I calculate readily. Newly hatched golf egos can be severely shattered in this fashion, but such delicate sensitivities don't belong on a golf course, anyway.
No, the only thing that delights me on the links is my own effortless, singing drive. My own approach shot with that lovely trajectory that signals it will reach the green with a heartwarming plop. My own accurate reading of the green, verified by the crackle in the cup as the ball finds its way home.
As I said, I thought I knew myself, but I had been living in a fool's paradise, masquerading under a façade. On the golf course I am ungracious, foul-tempered and quick to sneer at others' achievements. Is it any wonder Socrates never played golf?
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This article appeared in the Saratoga News, April 30, 1997.
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