Tom Coyne - Paper Tiger: An Obsessed Golfers Quest to Play with the Pros

we know what we are, but know not what we may be.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Golf is hard.

DR. JIM SUTTIE

T his is the 7:30 tee time off tee number one. Now on the tee, from Philadelphia, PennsylvaniaTom Coyne. The scene looks vaguely amiliar. In every direction, the wet-tipped morning grass, pine trees standing in careful rows, and here, in front of my feet, a square carpet of perfect green, the grass clipped tight as the scalp of a re-upped marine. The small plateau is empty save two black plastic blocks, planted in the turf across from each other in some seemingly purposeful position. A woman is standing at the edge of the short grass holding a clipboard in one hand, megaphone in the other, though she doesnt need to use itthere are only a dozen or so faces, all gathered within earshot. Most look like theyre on the same team, or recently arrived from the same boarding school. All young men in saddle shoes or wingtips, khaki slacks, sweaters and vests, everyone in baseball caps. And most of them are holding long, skinny sticks in their hands, silver-and black-and green-colored rods, waving them around their bodies like drunken fencers. They all seem to be in their twenties, tall and skinny, perhaps even athletic-looking if they werent dressed up like their fathers. They all have a look on their face like somebody pissed in their Wheaties. And they are all looking straight at me.

Tom Coyne , I think to myself, I know that guy . Im half-asleep, confident that I am standing upright even though I feel nothing below my chin, and, like the rest of the crowd, probably just to blend in, I am holding one of these blue staffs with a small black bulb attached to the end of it, a sort of space-age mace, dangerous-looking, yet impossibly lightweight. I am here, but not sure how that happened, as if Ive just woken up from a drunken night in a strange town, and I feel like if I just stand here long enough, frozen still on this giant raft of green dont move, nobody else is moving pose here long enough, I just might disappear.

But before I can blend away into oblivion, I feel my legs start to life, my feet begin to heel-toe their way forward this feels nice, I wonder where Im going. I reach my hand into my pocketit looks like my hand, pale and freckled, hanging from what I have to trust is my arm (its wearing my shirt, after all). I feel my head begin to fall toward the ground, my body bending at the waistbad idea, whatever I was able to choke down for breakfast tries to make a quick run for itbut I stand up straight, take a deep breath, cough down whats tugging at the bottom of my throat, and when I look back down at the grass, surprise, a little white globe is floating magically above the turf.

I watch my fingers tangle around the rubber end of my stick, and I drop the dangerous end squarely behind the sphere as if I intend it harm. The little ball looks innocent enough, plastic yet precious, all lit up with hundreds of careful anglesand yet I feel nothing but resentment for this tiny jewel. It needs to be punished. It needs to be struck, this much I know, but the tool Im holding next to it seems perfectly ill-suited for the job.

Something is about to happen. And nothing is about to happen. I become as stiff a part of the scene as those pine trees, transfixed by this milky piece of plastic at my feet. My eyes study the balls every peak and valley, wandering up and down its curves, the same way my eyes probe that spot on the wall just above the urinal, mesmerized by every nook and cranny of the concrete, lost in the texture, comforted by the familiarity of that omnipresent booger smear

And then its gone. I dont see the ball leave, but I watch it rocket through the air, far and away, soon just a speck skipping down a runway of wet turf. We didnt have a lot of time together, me and my little white ball. But they were good times.

I step aside and watch as three of the young men from the crowd, apparently inspired by my display, step forward and attempt their own imitations. Hand in the pocket, bend over, pose there for a while and then give it a whack. Its an understated violence, and it seems an ineffective release, like whipping a horse with fishing line. The ball escapes with all the energy, and the young men are left with looks on their faces like they already miss their friend, like if it would come back to them, next time they would treat it better.

And apparently there will be a next time, and soon, because in a moment we are walking across a field, sacks of sticks swinging from our shoulders, a platoon of four heading out to chase down the one that went AWOL.

As we march, I start to feel my hands again, and my feet, and Im aware that my knees are bending. I look around. Fairway. Bunkers. A flag waving in the distance as if calling us home. I know where I am, and I was right: Ive been here before. But before was never quite like this.