Religion is man’s way of attempting to explain the unexplainable. Perhaps that’s why golfers so often claim the wrath of god in explanation of a poor shot, a bad bounce or an unfortunate lip out. We even have our own term: the golfing gods.
The notion that one or more deity spends time literally lording over rounds of golf has always struck me as odd at best, ludicrous at worst. After all, with all the suffering in the world, why don’t these golf gods transition over to hunger, warfare – or even traffic jams?
Still, the emasculation and sense of pure personal failure that I sometimes feel after chilly-dipping a chip or block-slicing two straight drives out of bounds certainly seems like suffering. I suppose that’s why golfers often turn to the heavens for an answer.
Few, however, take that divine search in the direction of one well known golf writer whom I was recently told about. Suffice it to say that this writer is known for flying ridiculously far off the handle while on the course. He also is at least somewhat familiar with the Indian people’s esteem for the cow, which under the country’s predominant faith of Hinduism, cannot be killed.
One day, during the midst of a tirade, this writer figured it all out. His lifetime of chunks, shanks, duck hooks and three-putts was the gods’ forced penance for a charmed and peaceful earlier carnation. As such, they were never going to let his game get any better.
“Motherfucker,” he said. “I must have been a cow in India in a prior life. I can’t suck enough.”