So many reasons to love golf

I love golf.

Absolutely love it.

I love the way my clubs rattle when I take them out of the trunk, the way my golf shoes feel, the softness of the glove, the sound of Velcro peeling and tightening at the wrist, the sag of an old Seagram's sack that holds my watch and cell phone.

I love the mood in the clubhouse, the pastel shirts folded neatly on a table, the multi-colored hats aligned on the shelf, the idle banter between golfers, every individual sleeve of balls, every bag of tees.

I love the way a golf cart beeps when you back up, jerks when you start forward, goes a little faster than you expected and clicks when you lock the brake.

I love the idea of the practice range, the ball dispensing machines, the little plastic baskets, the guy in the picker-upper-mobile, the perception of progress, the first wedge and the last drive you hit.

I love the putting green, like a dance floor, where you drop three balls, steer clear of each other's space, make some, miss some, scoop them up and walk away like you've learned something.

Fairways, frog hair

I love the first tee, the way starters greet and give you instructions, the concept of cart-path-only, the beauty of the 90-degree rule, the feel of a brand new scorecard and those little pencils without erasers.

I love the smell of freshly mowed fairways in the morning, the bending at the waist, the one-legged ballet, balancing your weight on your driver, sticking a tall white tee into the ground, placing a ball on top and believing this is going to be the day.

I love the sound of a practice swing, the moment of address, the waggle and the first inch of the back swing from which there is no return.

I love the exact moment of impact, the bend in the shaft, the imperceptible grunt of human effort, the follow through and the inevitable pose.

I love watching the ball leave at high speed, climb, reach its zenith, diminish in the distance, fall, roll and lie quietly on the ground.

I love the bad shots, too, the splash of white sand, the kaplunk of blue water, the hollow konk of old oak, the hide-and-seek games in high rough.

I love the way foursomes hit, in order of distance from the green without being told, the selection of irons, the judging of wind, the good intentions of each earnest swing.

I love gap wedges, new grips, head covers, sprinkler heads, playing with strangers, the handicap system, ball washers, hazard stakes, drop areas and the white tees.

I love filling divots, fixing ball marks, avoiding your partner's putting line, and greenskeepers who stop mowing while you hit.

I love greenside bunkers with high lips, frog hair, fast greens, the clank of a pin being dropped, sand wedges left on the putting surface, putts that break left, putts that break right, downhill putts, uphill putts, and those devilish putts that don't break at all.

Caddies, chili dogs

I love all manner of ball marks, like pocket change and plastic things that snap on your glove, hang on your pocket or clip on your cap.

I love putters that come in all shapes and sizes, like people, only stranger and less willing to accept blame, until banished to the way-back part of your car trunk.

I love the purr of a putt rolling against the grain, the way the logo wobbles when the ball slows down, the anxiety it creates when it gets close, and the oh-so-sweet sound when it finds the bottom of the cup.

I love one-putts, two-putts, three-putts, backhanded jabs, good-goods, gimmes and the ones just outside the leather.

I love the fist-pumps, the head-nods, the eye-rolls and the sighs of relief that follow any made putt.

I love the three-finger pickup from the hole, the player who always puts the flag back in the hole and the ones who never do.

I love writing numbers on the scorecard, adding up scores at the turn, a good golf-course chili dog and the eternal promise of the back nine.

I love the honesty of golf, the cruelty of stroke and distance penalties, searching for an opponent's lost ball, walking with a caddie, the humility of triple bogeys, playing it where it lies and counting every shot.

I love the presence of laughter, the absence of anger, the camaraderie, the pranks, the golf jokes, and the beer cart girls.

I love the 18th hole, the handshakes all around, the excuses, the could-have-beens, the should-have-beens, and how we're all going to do better next time.

Because we love golf.

Absolutely love it.

Reach Ken Burger at 937-5598 or kburger@postandcourier.com.