There is a man in my neighborhood who I regularly see leaving the house with a bag full of golf clubs. He’s not really a thug, more of a level-headed person. Nevertheless, he wraps himself in a checkered robe, equips himself with white balls and goes golfing.
My affection for this so-called sport is limited. Where I come from, in Syria, playing golf is an occupation for the notorious bourgeoisie, politicians and statesmen. Circles known to be fond of corruption. In Syria, there are only golf courses between the villas of politicians and the upper bourgeoisie. The middle class and the poor have no contact with it. In Syria I only knew golf courses from films.
Where I live now, my jogging route leads past the town of Steinhöring. Nature full of green grass and small hills. Pure idyll. I thought. Because in the municipal area there is a lawn with flags and holes. A place for thugs.
For years I avoided getting any closer to the golf course than was necessary for my jogging aspirations. Until my neighbor with a penchant for plaid invited me to play a round with him at the Steinhöringer facility. Well, I thought to myself, everyone deserves a chance.
We arrived at the golf course, the view was beautiful but the people seemed snobby with their polished teeth, neatly coiffed hair and dust-free robes. My neighbor explained the rules of the game to me, he hit the ball, got in the caddy and drove to the second hole.
I was still far from the first hole. I found that golf gives you a lot of time to observe other golfers. One reminded me of Donald Trump from top to bottom. The only thing missing was that he blared some misogynistic or racist slogan over the square. I thought to myself – only to be ashamed of this thought shortly afterwards.
As I stood there watching balls fly, I suddenly heard a voice next to me. It was the man with the Trumpian aura, which, however, immediately evaporated. Thanks to his broad Upper Bavarian, the mustache that is only now visible and the friendly red cheeks. More of an anti-Trump, I thought. And was right. Because the man wanted to show me something.
Racket position, that’s how it started. He did it to me in one fell swoop. Because he didn’t manage to sink the ball from close range, a soft curse escaped him. Zefix!
I admired the persistence with which he explained everything to me from then on. Depending on the distance to the hole, he changed his playing tools. He said he still swings the racquet the same way he did 20 years ago. The difference to the past, however, is that the balls no longer fly as desired. We kept playing – and that’s how I got to know golf wisdom: 18 golf holes say more about the player than 19 years together at the desk.
My desk, I really longed for it. When I reached hole 18, it was already getting dark. Then it was done. Above all, I was done. I felt lucky to know that there is – thank heaven – a good alternative to golf in Bavaria. I’m more of a simple club type mini golfer.