The onset of winter always transports me into the strange netherworld of nostalgia, where the things that have happened merge with the things that didn’t, and run headlong into the things that could have, and perhaps should have.

Golf is a great lifeline to pull oneself through these currents – golf transports the mind back into the here-and-now of each shot, and offers a whole other collection of shoulda-woulda-couldas to fret over. But seeing as it’s winter in Illinois, golf is pretty much out for a few months.

Another way to stay afloat is poetry.

Now don’t laugh. Golf and poetry have more in common than you probably imagine. So bear with me.

Former U.S. Poet Laureate Billy Collins commented last year in an interview in Golf Magazine, that he wasn’t aware of any good golf poems–or any golf poems at all. For the magazine’s 45th Anniversary issue, he contributed one. That poem was good–competent and well-crafted, as one would expect from one of the nation’s premier poets.

Nevertheless, I took issue with the misconception that there were no golf poems before that one, as would, I think, John Updike, who has written eloquently in both prose and verse on the game.

To further address and redress the matter, I offer the following, written years ago as my wife and I awaited the birth of our first child, and I awaited an early-morning round.

Even



We begin

In dewy perfection –

Nowhere to go

But forward and down.

Squinting in genesis-light,

Yawning great, fresh breaths –

This is the best

We will ever be:

This green day,

This first brave step

Into preordained,

Unavoidable,

Thrilling and terrible

Decline.



No matter the place

Or condition

in which you finish

this long day,

Let all who saw you

know that once

You were flawless –

On that first tee

You were Even.



Then, inevitable as

The first inhalation

Leads ultimately to death,

So too the first swing

Brings you to

One over perfect.

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