It’s been said that the “worst day on the golf course is better than the best day at the office,” a sentiment likely originated by someone with the emotions of a tree stump.  I don’t know about you, but I’m rarely so frustrated at work that I swear at the top of my lungs, or feel like throwing something out the window.  But these are the realities for some – no, most – avid golfers, who have pledged on more than one occasion to “quit this stupid game.”  My round last weekend personifies this Byzantine I-love-this-game-no-I-hate-it relationship:

It started pleasant enough.  A slight breeze kept the August sun at bay.  The grassy scent from the freshly cut fairways was a refreshing invitation and a reminder of why I play.  Golf is supposed to be relaxing, right?  “Now on the #1 tee, the Raines twosome,” roared the clubhouse loudspeaker, alarming me to stop hitting range balls, and head to the first tee where my dad was already warming up.  I try to play a couple times a week in good weather, often with my dad, to catch up and take advantage of the club membership he has (that I don’t).

I won’t qualify for the PGA Tour any time soon, but compared to your average weekend hack, I’m decent.  My best score ever is a 75, and regularly shoot in the low 80s, or high 70’s on a good day.

So then, I was thrilled to be playing ‘par golf’ through the first seven holes — with one birdie, one bogey, the rest pars — which is never a bad thing when you’re a 10 handicapper.  I was dialed in like a sniper at a shooting range.

On the 8^th hole, at even par, I stuck an approach shot to just 10 feet from the hole.  A very makeable birdie putt.  Could I possibly go UNDER par?!  I studied the break with a pitcher’s focus on a 3-2 count.  I saw some left-to-right break, and played the putt accordingly.  The ball hung out wide, then curved back towards the hole to complete its destiny.  I could feel a Tiger Woods Fist Pump coming.  But then, one foot out, the ball buckled right, horseshoed around the hole, and lipped out.  HOW. DID THAT NOT. GO IN.

Straggling to the next tee, I could not get over the missed opportunity.  In a moment of doomsday self-prophecy, I told my dad “I guarantee, looking back after the round, that’s gonna be the defining moment that changed everything.” My tee shot: A hook right into the trees.

The good news? I found my ball.  The bad news?  It was under a huge oak tree, and unplayable.  Drop #1.  Breath in, breath out.  Or not.  I shanked my next shot left into the other tree line.  Au revoir, stupid little white ball.  So having to take another drop, I was sitting one, two, three, ah…four.  That’s right, sitting four on a Par 5 with about 200 yards to go.

My next shot actually went towards the green. Woohoo! But not on it.  I’d need another shot for that.  And finally, now on the green in six, I somehow carelessly banged a 15-foot putt close enough to finish it off with my next putt, for an EIGHT on the hole.  In golf circles, we call that a Snowman.  A Snowman is almost as dreaded to the golfer as snow on the ground itself.

It was time to refocus.  I was like a Deal or No Deal contestant who just lost his or her last big money case, desperately trying to assure themselves and the crowd saying “It’s okay. IT’S OKAY.   $1,000 is still great.” I’m just +3 now, no big deal.  I can just make a few birdies and be right back there, I told myself.  (As if birdies are just waiting to be had for a 10 handicapper in a downward spiral fit for an ESPN special of Sports History’s Greatest Blowups.)

Do I need to tell the rest?  You can see where this is going.  The rest of the round: Bogey, bogey, par, par, par — hey wait a minute, am I getting back on track? — er, no.  Another triple bogey on the way, this time for just a seven!  Small victories, people, small victories.  And so despite being Even through eight holes, I managed to play +9 thru the next 10 holes, and finish at 81 for the round.

Moral of the story?  If you haven’t yet, don’t take up golf — it will mess with your mind in ways you didn’t think possible.  Seriously, just don’t.  Take up a sport or hobby that won’t make you want to throw your clubs into the pond, or worse, feel like taking the club to whatever (or whoever) is closest to you.  I know several people who were decent golfers, tried to raise their game with a lesson or two, only to get much worse.  In fact, it took me six months to recover from a hideous unintended swing change I made after some lessons a few years back.  So I’ll say this: if you like doing things where you’re good one day and terrible the next, regardless of how much practice you put into it — then this game is for you!

Epilogue: two days later I was back on the course.  I chipped in from off the green for a birdie…which was nice.  “Those are the shots that keep us coming back, aren’t they,” my playing partner said.  Yep.  The minute you think you have everything figured out, you’re ruthlessly put in your place.  And when you’re ready to give up, you hit a miracle 40-foot putt and start the process all over.

The golf gods giveth, and they taketh away.  And thus summarizes the love/hate relationship between man and golf ball, and maybe even life itself.

Raised in a basketball family and playing the sport since I was three, I should have easily made my high school team.  But in the summer before 9^th grade, with fall tryouts looming, I looked more like the Michelin Man than Karl Malone.  With a premature beer belly and moobs to boot, I needed help, and fast.  So I got a personal trainer.

Dirk Hoyle stood only 5 10″, but strutted like he was a foot taller.  His Special Forces and bodybuilding days were well behind him, but hand him a spear and shield and he would’ve fit right in as one of King Leonidas’ 300.  Now 34, he clinged to a youthful cool image — usually dressed in surfer shorts, a tank top that tugged to his bulging muscles, and designer sunglasses flipped over his short bleached blond hair.  Few could get away with the look, but he did.

The first two weeks of training were hell — I was like some out of place Marine recruit two days into basic training who went from Ooh Rah! to WHAT DID I SIGN UP FOR.  My soft 14 year-old body weathered unheard of fatigue and pain.  Dirk’s favorite torture method for me was military calisthenics — a simple, yet demanding series of exercises that don’t involve any weights or machines.  The worst of them were these double push-ups with about six different steps to complete just ONE.  So doing five was

tough.  Ten?  Brutal.  Hey JJ, how about you do FOUR sets of FIFTEEN?  That bastard.  But this is what we did every day — calisthenics, lunges, stair stepping, running, and weight lifting every area of the body — a regimen fit for The Biggest Loser.

These days were temporarily behind me.

And my diet?  A max of 1700 calories a day, consisting mostly of protein bars, meal replacements, fruit, vegetables, and egg whites.  No more wolfing down chimichangas and Hot Pockets as after lunch snacks.  Somehow, despite this system-shock and initial struggle, I remained motivated to stick it out and get in shape.

July became August, then September, and training continued as the school year started.  The pounds were melting off, and he was beating up on me as usual.  Putting the water bottle Dirk always carried to good use, he’d occasionally douse me with it whenever he felt like, as if I was some pesky fire t

hat needed to be put out.  “Three more reps,” he would say towards the end of a long set.  And countdown: “3, 2, 1—, 2, 1, 1, 1,” extending the ‘three more’ into seven or eight.  SCREW YOU! I’d gasp, after doing more than double of what was expected.

Ah, but it was good for me.  By the time the November tryouts finally rolled around, I had lost 40 pounds, and more than half my body fat.  The miracle was pulled off, and I easily made the hoops squad.

We continued working together off and on for the next year or so.  Quickly after, we lost touch.  I do wonder sometimes what Dirk is up to; whether he’s toughening up a new fat kid, or in the mountains of Afghanistan hunting down the remnants of the Taliban.

Regardless, just about everything I’ve ever learned about diet and exercise, I learned from him (among other things, like how to handle an AK-47, or choke someone out, but I digress.)  And I’ve needed it, as I’ve gone on three or four long term major diet and exercise programs since (where do you think all that bacon goes?).   And using the methods I learned from him, I’ve seamlessly lost the weight and reached my goals.  Without getting into details of different exercises, it’s no more complicated than this: I try burn more calories than I eat, and boost my metabolism by combining many small meals with exercise.  It’s hard work, but completely fail proof.

Via Copyblogger.

1. Write.
2. Write more.
3. Write even more.
4. Write even more than that.
5. Write when you don’t want to.
6. Write when you do.
7. Write when you have something to say.
8. Write when you don’t.
9. Write every day.
10. Keep writing.

Obviously, writers are readers too; they also analyze and study their craft, in a continual growing process.  But the point here is valid that the best way to improve your writing is to write.   Especially starting out, it’s vital to break through the initial block by forcing yourself to just do it, and hopefully Newton’s law of inertia will take over from there.  But it really does get easier.

To remix Frost: Writing is a hydrant in the yard and good writing is a faucet upstairs in the house.  Opening the first takes all the pressure off the second.