The Siren Song of Golf
January 21, 2004

Ed Harris, me, Hank Harris and John. This was the Harris Brothers vs. the Roots Brothers! Click here to view Roots' photo album.

I returned home a couple of weeks ago only to face another war. This one, however, is of my own making. It's my love/hate relationship with the game of golf. I look forward to getting out on the links, and when you have had to go without playing for seven months, you have the golfer's version of withdrawals. Being in Djibouti, Africa since July, I used to look out on the desert sands surrounding our base, hoping to find something living and green. All that was there was scrub brush and prickly bushes eking out a meager existence. In my mind I could imagine verdant fairways, fluffy sand traps, and velvety greens beckoning to me, like Ulysses sailing past the Coast of the Sirens.

One of the deceptions of the game of golf is the promise that your next round will be your best ever. I listened to this silky, alluring voice whispering, enticing, ever promising feats of play that are best left in the realms of dreams. Yet I listened to this sound, just as Ulysses did, ordering his men to strap him to the mast of the ship as they sailed by the Sirens. He required his men to plug their ears with wax so as not to hear the sultry songs, rowing until out of harms way. Ulysses, on the other hand, heard the Sirens calling to him. He begged, he pleaded, he cried for his men to release him, so taken was he by the intoxicating sound of the Sirens. But his men were loyal to him and would not allow him to be so destroyed.

So, I ask you, where are the people in my life who will strap me to the mast and prevent me from destroying myself by obeying the siren call of golf? Is there no one who cares enough to deliver me from the abuses heaped upon fools who engage in such sports folly? Alas and alack, I am doomed to repeat the errors of my ways, for my friends, yea, my own brother, and even my dear wife pull me into the embrace of this fickle fantasy.

Paul Koval and Chuck Roots

Case in point, I went out last week to play my first round of golf since early last July. Our church's new youth minister, and now acting senior pastor in my absence, Paul Koval, asked me if I'd like to go play a round of golf — this invitation coming from a fellow Christian and brother minister! We played at Jack Tone in Ripon, an executive style course, which means it's shorter than regulation courses. I thought, "This is a good way to start back playing." Ah! The demons were rejoicing at my being suckered into such deceptive thinking. I went for it. It was all Pastor Paul's fault.

I played really well that day. This is how the golf gods treat you. They lure you in by allowing you to enjoy a descent round. Then you fall easily into faulty thinking which goes something like this: "That enforced lay-off didn't hurt my game any." "I've still got game!" "I'm hitting the ball really well." Or, "All I need to do is concentrate a bit more on certain shots and I'll be shooting par." I could hear the snickering of the golf gods, but I plunged right ahead.

That night I called my brother, John, also an avid golfer, and said those things one should never say regarding this evil game. To quote myself, this is what I said when he answered the phone: "Be afraid. Be very afraid." I should have been saying this to myself! Even while saying that, I knew I was an idiot. He laughed that knowing laugh that only those can laugh who've been seduced by this infernal game. Thus began my irreversible slide into golf's humiliation.

The next day I called my good friend, Dave Roorda, and asked him if he was available to play. Just so happened he was. So off we went to the Manteca golf course. Then the teasing by the golf gods began. I have never beaten Dave in golf. And I suspect I never will. So I beat him on the first hole. Only problem is there are eighteen holes. I should have stopped right then. In my heart of hearts I knew my game would soon deteriorate. But hope springs eternal! This time would be different! O Fool! Fool that I am!

My brother arrived that night, stopping over with us for a couple of days, returning to his home in Virginia after a business trip to Alaska. I had arranged with friends to play at the Turlock Country Club the next two days. John and I play with Jack King, Hank Harris and his brother, Ed, whenever John's in town. We played in the cold, damp elements. My comment on the first tee was, "Only ducks and golfers are out in weather like this." My game the next two days allowed me to become quite familiar with trees, sand traps and water holes. The golf gods were enjoying themselves immensely at my expense.

Then as I was writing this article, my beloved wife, Isaura, walked in and asked if I was planning to play golf today! I immediately said, "No!" Thoughts of "Get behind me, Satan!" came to mind. Then it struck me! She's working for "them!" But I would be strong. I would not cave to the Siren's song.

Next thing I knew I was calling Dave. I couldn't help myself. He's available this Friday morning. We have a tee time.

Quick! Lash me to the mast! Doom on me!