GOLF (again!)
Regular readers will know how much I love golf, how much comfort the game gives me. It's true that my love is unrequited, that I don't have the talent or physical strength to be adept at the game, but my love remains strong. I loved golf the first time I picked up an aging 1940s-vintage wood and savored its beauty. Ever since, I've loved everything about the game, the esthetics of the clubs and the courses, the (unfortunately rare) feeling of a well-struck shot, the disappointments of bad shots, the rich history of the game, the companionship of others who love golf. I feel part of a family whenever I even think about golf, I feel a member of the family of golf, a part of the huge group of people, alive and dead, who love or have loved golf. So you can imagine how I felt when standing on the first tee at the Old Course, St. Andrews, the home of golf.
The organizer of our tour had arranged a comfortable starting time on a beautiful day with wonderful companions. The holes before me were familiar from television. I remembered stories of great players at the same spots, playing for high stakes, sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing, but always a credit to the game. I remembered Bobby Jones saying that if everything but his experiences at St. Andrews were removed from his life he would still have led a rich, full life. I felt oddly at one with the game. No bad shot could ruin the day, no good shot could make it any better.
My caddy was a university student of engineering and, along with advice about the difficult bunkers and greens, pointing me in the right direction and finding the ball after errant shots, he was able to satisfy, in part, my search for understanding of the concept of an expanding universe. I'm not a scientist so I've always thought that, by definition, the universe encompassed everything and therefore couldn't expand. But most importantly, he taught me something about myself and the way I appear to others when he casually mentioned that he didn't expect to make much money when he graduated from university.
In fact, I'm not particularly interested in money. I never worked for money, as such, and I never pursued hobbies with money in mind. I've wanted enough money to perform my work in the best possible manner and to pursue my hobbies, I don't want to live in squalor, I want to enjoy an occasional extravagant meal, but I never thought about money as a goal. I've wanted to be rewarded for my work in a way that supports my professional self-esteem but I've given away more of my services than I've charged for. I dress neatly but inexpensively and you can probably tell by my excitement at the Germany-Scotland trip I've been writing about that I rarely travel. So what was it about me that caused my caddy to make such a remark?
Was it the mere fact that I was playing at St. Andrews and could afford a caddy? Was it the fact that I was an American and therefore presumed to be money-obsessed? Or had I unconsciously suggested that money was important to me? I guess I'll never know for sure but I surmise that it was some combination of these causes. And if I'm correct, it reminds me of how much in my life I take for granted. If the caddy was recognizing the expense of being on the first tee at St. Andrews, of enjoying the wonders of playing at the home of golf, in some sense he was right to suggest I valued money. But he was there as well, as a university student, enjoying the same thing.
I guess my answer to problems with money is to pick goals, work to the goals, but enjoy your progress rather than worrying about failure to reach a goal. Value what you have but don't become self-satisfied. Look to the fun in life and don't let money (or the lack of it) take away the fun. Use money to help yourself and help others and never take anything for granted. And, perhaps most importantly, try to look at yourself as others see you and think about what you learn.
10-7-02
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