In un articolo pubblicato su Outside, il divulgatore scientifico statunitense David Quammen racconta la sua passione per il golf.
If it weren’t for good company, such as Jack and Thomas and Gene and Skip and Timothy and the other Mike (not Karbowski but my doctor, six foot ten and hits the ball a mile) and Kathryn and John and Ira and Earl and the others, I wouldn’t play. If it weren’t for companions like Robert, a great storyteller, especially when it was his turn to hit, who left us early because of pancreatic cancer, I wouldn’t play. (Approaching what might be an eight-iron shot, Robert would say, “My eight-iron goes 126 yards,” and then be mildly surprised if it didn’t. After his funeral, by decision of his wife, I inherited that eight-iron and the rest of his clubs, now serving as physical tokens for remembering him as I play. The eight-iron sometimes goes 126 yards.) If it weren’t for the imperfectability of golf, especially my own game, I wouldn’t play. If it weren’t for the learning curve angled so gently upward, and the laughter, and the astonishing moments of pure swing with a ball rocketing off toward its intended target, and the fact that even a blind pig finds an acorn once in a while, I wouldn’t play. If it weren’t for the numinous, brief moments in which a whacking, chunking, shanking, dribbling striver like me is vouchsafed a taste of what golf can be, I wouldn’t bother.
Immagine da pxhere.