The only cure for the golf addict trapped in the frigid northeast for several months is a set or two of tennis indoors. Similar skills are required, eye on the ball, etc., with the exception that the ball is moving and tennis is a sport, while golf is essentially a target game -- like darts or bowling.
One does, however, get the ecstatic "pure" feeling from a well-struck tee shot or forehand, much like the sweet kiss of bat on baseball that drills a line drive up the middle (for those of us who remember that feeling from Little League days). It is the memory of effortless execution, an almost magical outburst of art and science that makes the object to be struck vanish with astonishing power and speed that keeps all duffers, hackers and weekend softball players returning to the courses, courts and diamonds in hope of recreating the exquisite moment of perfection. It is as close to God as the sportsman gets.
Indeed, because perfection is so infrequent, its attainment is so much more tingling. It surprises me that artists such as Tiger Woods or Rafael Nadal do not get bored since perfection is so routine. What satisfaction can there be (other than pecuniary) when the outcome is largely predetermined? These men are wired differently than you and me. Perfection must have a different definition for them.
As for me, the blissful moment of one perfect stroke is worth a thicket of breakdowns regardless of the score. Now if I could just put two of those moments together in a row.
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