SHOUTS & MURMURS

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by Larry David
JULY 4, 2011

On the par-3, 175-yard Iourteenth hole at Riviera, I hit my tee shot a mere ninety yards
and a physics-deIying thirty degrees to the rightalmost sideways. It`s a miracle I got
my right leg out oI the way, or I could have shattered it with the club. As I walked to the
ball, I remarked to my Iriend that aIter seventeen years oI playing this course I`d never
seen someone hit a ball anywhere near where mine ended up. He had never seen it, either.
'What`s more, I said, 'I couldn`t care less. My Iriend was taken aback. But I meant it. I
didn`t care, and I didn`t particularly care about the next shot, either. I Ielt liberated, not
unlike the way I Ielt when my wiIe leIt me, except this time I didn`t take up skipping.
Finally, aIter years oI pain and struggle, I had accepted the Iact that I wouldneverbe a
good golIer. No matter how many hours I practiced, no matter how many instructors I
saw, how many books and magazines I read, or how many teaching aids I tried. Then it
hit me. According to Dr. Elisabeth Kbler-Ross`s book 'On Death and Dying,
Acceptance was the Iinal stage oI grieI that terminal patients experience beIore dying, the
others being Anger, Denial, Bargaining, and Depression. I was in the Iinal stage! When I
started thinking about it, I realized that I`d gone through every one oI those stages, but
not as a terminal patient . . . as a golIer.
My Iirst stage: Anger. There was a time when I was always angry on the course.
Driving Iast in the cart. Throwing clubs. Constantly berating myselI. 'You stink, Iour-
eyes! You stink at everything. You can`t even open a bottle oI wine! You can`t swipe a
credit card at the drugstore! You can`t swipe. And you`ve never even been to the
Guggenheim. TheGuggenheim'And call your parents, you selIish bastard! Then I`d walk
oII the course and vow never to play again, only to return the Iollowing week Ior more oI
the same. I hardly ever Iinished a round. Once, I bought a brand-new set oI clubs, and
then, aIter a particularly terrible day, I gave them to the caddy at the sixteenth hole and
leIt.
The Anger phase lasted Ior years, and then I entered the next phase, Denial. 'All I
need are some lessons, I told myselI. 'Why should everyone else be able to do it and not
me? Why aretheygood? I`m cordinated. I have a jump shot! I can go to my leIt.
Obviously I have it in me. I have it in me! Next year, I`ll go to Orlando and spend a week
taking lessons with Leadbetter. I don`t care what it costs. How can you spend a week
with Leadbetter and not get better? It`s impossible. But I did, and I didn`t.
The third stage was Bargaining, and I did my share oI that. 'Please, God. All I want to
do is hit the ball. What is it You want? Good deeds? Give me a swing and I`ll give You
good deeds up the wazoo. I`ll help sick kids, the homeless . . . well, sick kids. I`ll stop all
the mocking. I`ll give up cookies, coIIee, coIIee cake, cashmere. I`ll go to temple. Is that
what You want? Temple? Done! Can I bring my BlackBerry? O.K., no BlackBerry, I
promise! Just let me hit the ball! What do You care? He didn`t. What kind oI God won`t
let me hit the ball? What did I ever do to Him? He took my hair, I didn`t complain. I
joked about it! I was a model bald man. Was it the TV show? Did He not like the show?
Too mean? I`ll make it nicer! I can be nice. 'Tell You whatI`ll visit my parents in
Florida three times next year. That`s right, You heard me. Three times! . . . Did I say
three? Three`s crazy. No one can survive three trips down there. It`s suicide. Let`s make
it two. What do You say? Two trips to Florida! I`m only human! And, by the way, I
wasn`t even asking to hit every shot. Or even every other shot. Or even everythirdshot. I
said, 'God, let me hit the ball every Iourth shot and I`ll be happy. Every Iourth shot! But
He didn`t. He wouldn`t. He won`t.
Then I driIted into the next stage, Depression. I was never going to be good. Never.
Think what I could`ve done with all that time. Learned French. Piano. I`d be playing
Chopin now iI it weren`t Ior golI. Playing Chopin Ior Julie Delpy. But instead I wasted
my liIe on this game. It looked so easy. The ball just sits there. Any idiot could do it. But
every instinct I had was wrong. You`re supposed to hit the ball down to make it go up.
That`s absurd. I want to hit it up to make it go up. When I try to hit down, it`s like I`m
splitting a log with an axe. All I do is chop up the course. And then there`s this one: the
easier you swing, the Iarther the ball goes. How can that be? So you hit down to make it
go up and swing easy to make it go Iar?
And now I Iind myselI in the Iinal stage, Acceptance. I will never be good. There, I
said it. I like saying it. I`ll say it again: I`ll never be good. It`s just not something I`m
suited Ior. That`s O.K. I`m good at other things. What those are I have no idea. But I`m
sure there are some. Flossing and dishwashing come to mind. Getting people I can`t stand
to like me is another. But golI ? No. I will never stand over the ball without considering
the disaster about to beIall me. I`ll never line up a putt and think I`ll make it. Never Iace a
chip without Iearing the decel. And yet I`ll continue to play, because I do hit some good
shots, especially when I`m on the driving range. I actually hit some great range shots.
What the hell is that? I`ve had swing compliments on the range. 'I love your tempo, a
woman once said to me. That`s rightI have good tempo. I`ve had many other range
compliments that I won`t bore you with, but, believe me, I`m an eight or a nine on the
range. So it`s clearly psychological. I wonder . . . what iI I blindIolded myselI ? Is it
possible?! Have I stumbled upon the Secret? It makes sense. The reason I can`t hit the
ball is that I can see it! Tomorrow I`m going to play blindIolded, and iI that doesn`t work
then I`ll deIinitely and unequivocally accept Acceptance. I just want to try this blindIold
idea. I have a very good Ieeling about it. Very good.