Letters to a Young Golfer (2 of 2 free samples)

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COPYRIGHT
Letters to a Young Golfer by Bob Duval with Carl Vigelund. Copyright 2002 by Bob Duval and Carl Vigeland
All Rights Reserved. Sharing not permitted.

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INTRODUCTION (CONT'D)

At Desert Mountain in Arizona, the first time I played in a major championship on the Senior Tour, I cold-topped my first drive. We were using split tees that day--half the field starting on the front nine, half on the back--and my group was beginning on the 10th tee. We were downwind, so I took a three-wood to keep it in the fairway. Well, that was the intention. Much to my chagrin, I topped the ball into a cactus plant--a distance of about thirty or forty steps!--where it was unplayable. So I had to retreive it and, with all my options exhausted, return to the tee and add a stroke. As I walked back through the cactus to hit another drive, while the next group was already waiting to tee off, the starter raised his voice to the surprised gallery: "Now at the tee--for the second time--Bob Duval."

It helps to have a sense of humor, because golf is a solitary game. No one can make the swing for you, whether you're trying to qualify for the pro tour or beat your buddy for a beer. But we golfers are part of a community, the huge group of diverse people who love and play this often maddening, ultimately exhilarating game.

In my own career, and in my life, other people have been there when I've needed them. But you must take that first step. Before you can ask someone else for help, you must know what you're looking for.

For me, after a lifetime of teaching golf, this meant I had to ask myself a terrifying yet liberating question: Could I do something in middle age that I'd feared doing as a young man after college? It was David who put that question to me, as his career on the PGA Tour was just beginning to take off.

When I was teaching him to play golf, I used to tell him, "Your score is just a succession of numbers. Don't add them up until your round is done." I still say the same thing to David and myself--and to you: Don't dwell on what just happened, whether it was great or terrible. Move on. Play the next shot.

That's advice I had to follow myself when I qualified for the Senior Tour, or I'd still be giving golf lessons for a living. Or maybe I'd have become a fishing guide, something I considered when I hurt my elbow two years ago (and then, after it healed following surgery, I injured a shoulder). The fact that I'm playing for lots of money today isn't the result of some magic spell or simple good fortune. I didn't win the lottery (though sometimes, with the prizes they pay out here, it might seem like I did). I was already lucky to have lived my entire life teaching and playing a game I love. But when I left behind the steady paycheck of my last teaching position, I knew that the only way I was going to make it was to develop a method, a habit of being prepared, that would carry me forward and through the most nerve-racking golf adventure of my life.
I had to put a target in my mind, like the target you aim for and react to on each golf shot, and then stay focused on it through the ups and downs that I knew I would face.

Just about every week on the Senior Tour someone playing in a pro-am will ask me for advice about becoming professional.

"How long have you been playing golf?" I ask.

Typically, the answer is vague, and when I see the person take a few swings it's pretty obvious what kind of a game he or she has. But every so often someone who can really hit the ball might have what it takes to become a pro.

"Have you played in some tournaments?" I ask.

"Yeah, club champion at home, and a couple of years ago I qualified for my state amateur. I'm also hoping to get into this year's U.S. Public Links."

"Well," I think to myself, "what do I say now?" Because there's no way of sugarcoating a reality: Playing golf at the highest level is ultimately a head game. And you don't learn that by perfecting a beautiful swing on a range, or by beating all your friends in a Nassau, or even by competing in some fairly rigorous amateur competitions where you live. You do it, as you do anything substantive in life, by repeatedly and incrementally growing through a long, arduous process of big failures and small successes, until one day the pieces fall together--the short game and the long irons, course management and competitive strategy--and suddenly you realize, "I can play golf."

Of course, most golfers aren't trying to become professionals. But everybody wants to improve. Having fun with something usually means getting better at it, whether you're a pro or a beginner. That means you, Susan in seventh grade in Boise, Joe at his club in Boston, Dr. Meredith leaving work in Dallas. But don't fear some failure along the way.

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