Golf Precedents and Presidents

Hooper Golf Club, Walpole, N.H.

Golf Precedents and Presidents

What is it with presidents and golf? Really. I want to know. But, I don’t want to know enough to ask the google wizard or search Encyclopedia Britannica, past issues of the National Review, or The Wall Street Journal. I just want presidents going golfing explained to me. Like, did they all golf? I know the current occupant does. Word on the street: he cheats. So out of character.  And I know Obama and W did — his dad, too — but, is it a “thing”? That’s what I want to understand. I mean, is it taught in poli-sci classes?

“You must master golf or go nowhere in this field.” Did Woodrow Wilson golf? Taft? (I bet not) Coolidge? Someone out there must know. I don’t think Teddy Roosevelt would have golfed though he’d likely blow the doors off anyone in knickerbockers or seersucker and finish his round a zillion under par. Whatever that means. I think it’s good. Eagles, birdies, bogeys — mind-blowing mysteries to me! Teddy Roosevelt lost the love of his life, moved west and wrangled cattle. I’ll bet he’d think ultra-manicured lawns and golf carts were for sissies. Bully!

What do they do out there on the eighteenth hole? Hide out and make back door deals? Exchange military secrets? Their mothers’ recipe for Bundt cake?

I grew up in the middle of a golf course. Really. Hooper Golf Club at the top of Prospect Hill in Walpole, New Hampshire. Walpole. Bedroom community to the somewhat wealthy and to humble schoolteachers and their families. Oh, and to a certain celebrated documentary filmmaker. Dad played golf. Occasionally. I mean, he taught high school chemistry, biology and physics so, when he got home in the evenings he had other things on his to do list.

I don’t understand golf at all though I live with Michael, a sometime golfer from way back. I know it’s considered kind of an art and, judging by the rules, which, no matter Michael’s many valiant attempts over years to explain to me, I will never, ever understand, it definitely seems artful.

We watch golf. I like Scottie Scheffler, McCllroy,  Tommy Fleetwood. Yup, I watch golf. I find it relaxing. Except when I try to “get it.” Then I’m flummoxed, randomly disquieted. Potentially, pissed. The rules confound me. But, at least it’s not tennis.

Tennis! Another game with even more exasperating rules. I like to fool around with a tennis racket and whack that ball hard for sure. We had tennis courts at the top of Prospect Hill, too, but I wasn’t allowed to play due to a spine that was busy scrunching into an “s” and crumpling my internal organs into an undulating mass of pain. My orthopedic surgeon was adamant: No one-handed sports allowed!

But, Michael plays and understands tennis. Tennis. The game where whoever contrived the rules was just messing with people’s heads. I mean, they are simply sinister, incomprehensible. Sets and Love and Match and Tiebreak and Game — I mean, when do you WIN?! It’s too much for my small brain. I still like to watch the best smash those felt-y balls, though.

Now football. There’s a sport. I love football . I love to play it and I love to watch it and, yes, I know it’s violent and dangerous, yes, yes, ho hum, I am not perfect. And I can hold my own in conversation about “The Game.” I’ll chat two- point conversions, touchbacks, onside kicks, offsides, flea flicker, and play action with the best of ‘em. Admittedly, I have some trouble reading a zone defense vs man but, I get by.

Back to presidents and golf. What’s the deal? What if you suck at golf but land yourself in the Oval? Would canasta do? Croquet? Shuffleboard? (Okay, shuffleboard is out; we’ve seen that movie for a bit too long now…)

I’m sure someone smarter than me will weigh in — or someone with time on their hands for a deep google dive. Of course, if you have a a sharp wit and a good quip, I would enjoy that as well. Meanwhile, the heck with presidents. I’ll stick to pigskin and the forty yard line; that’s a game easily understood.