I am a golfer. I know this because I have this sweet pair of shorts with little embodied golf flags on them that only a golfer can wear.

It’s this simple bit of J. Crew attire that marks my psychology as not just someone who plays golf, but as someone who is a golfer. And there’s a big difference.

If I just played golf, just went out and slapped the ball around, had a good time, threw a few bucks into a double Nassau, not only couldn’t I wear the shorts, but I wouldn’t be obsessed with finding my swing. After all, golf is pretty much impossible, and if you just play golf, you accept it. 

But if you’re a golfer, you deny the impossible. You’re prone to suddenly stopping whatever you’re doing—including neurosurgery—and practicing your swing. You obsesses about all that can go wrong between address and contact, and when you’re out on the course you analyze every swing and why they’ve each gone so horribly wrong.

A typical analysis after one of my ‘mighty lashes’ goes something like this:

“I was suppinating, I was pronating, I came over the top, I was too far inside, I got stuck on right side, I slid on my left side, I was off line, I was too fast, I lifted my head, the ball was too far forward, the ball was too far back, I turned my hands over on the take-away, I turned my hands over on the downswing, I was thinking about chicken…”

You’ve heard them all before.

Hence I put together rounds where I’m three under through seven and twenty-one over for the next eleven. 

It was after just such a round that friend suggested I go to see the mysterious Dr. Mokuna, the golf guru the golf gurus go to when they’re having problems guruing. 

The doctor has a state of the art practice facility on the leeward side of a small island where no cars are allowed. It’s walking only.

I found him on the range, hitting a 7 iron, 180, into a five gallon bucket…with the grip end.

He looked at me and grinned, “Now you try. Use one of your clubs, the one you like the best.”

“The one I hit the best?”

“No,” Dr. Mokuna said softly, “The one you like the best, and you don’t have to hit the ball with the grip.”

I stared at my bag; I’m usually on bad terms with my driver, my putter and I generally get along well, as for the rest of the bag, it’s like all marriages, some good days, some bad days—but I don’t actually have a club I like better than the all the others.

“Do actually mean “like” as is have feelings for?” I asked.

“That’s a good question? Why don’t you close your eyes and grab an iron.”

This was getting a little weird, but, I do play a game where saddle shoes are de rigueur so I reached out like Luke Skywalker and let the Force find me a club—a 6 iron.

“Step up and swing away,” said the doctor, then moved closer and eyed my bag.

“Do you want me to try and hit the bucket?” I asked.

“I don’t want you to ‘try’ and do anything, just swing,” he smiled.

After half a dozen balls he stopped me and said, “You swing is fine, your clothes fashionable, and I like the old school sock and pom-pom head covers on your hybrids. I’m afraid I can’t help you, golf is not your problem.”

“You can’t? It’s not?” I asked.

“Sorry. There’s some slight mechanical adjustment you can make, but it’s minor and it won’t help,” he replied

“Then what is the problem?” 

He sighed, not happy to tell me, “You have devils in your head.”

“Devils in my head?”

“I’m afraid so.” 

I was stunned; I knew I had all kinds of things in my head, in addition to hundreds of swing thoughts, but devils—most unexpected.

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked, hoping the solution was putting a chicken in a paper bag and whirling it over my head at midnight on the Road Hole on the Old Course.

“No,” he replied, shaking he head. “And don’t even think about bringing poultry to St. Andrews.”

I stammered, “I’m not suppinating or pronating or sliding or getting stuck or coming over the top, or anything like that? I have devils in my head? What am I supposed to do?”

Dr. Mokuna shrugged sagely, “There’s nothing you can do, you’re a golfer.”

WR Marshall is a syndicated golf columnist in Charleston, SC. Contact him via e-mail: marshallwr@hotmail.com