“Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes, including you”
Anne Lamott
Not so long ago, most of the world took a break; unplugged from the routine. Perhaps not in the circumstances we’d have chosen, but somehow in all the chaos and suffering of a pandemic, there also existed a rare chance to re-examine how we were living, and consider alternatives. An opportunity to pause, and reflect.
While all of this was going on, I took to writing as a way of channeling the intensity of those times. I wrote for myself in the early mornings, before most alarm clocks started to rattle, and it felt as if I was finally bringing to the surface a secret, lifelong desire to do this thing, to write. And when the curfews came, I wrote for work - an attempt to cheer the golfing community I served, with a daily blend of nonsense that might remind them just what this old game means to them.
The Lockdown Letters were a rite of passage for me - a test of how it felt to put my own thoughts and feelings in front of others. We are delicate souls, us humans, and the English doubly so in most cases. But I knew deep down that I’d neglected a central part of my being in allowing golf to become only an occasional factor in the fabric of this one life, so celebrating it with a captive - pretty much imprisoned - audience was healing.
We rigged up practice nets in our backyards, gullies started to form in our carpets from putting, and we dreamed of a world in which all the warning signs went away, and the first tee opened up again. And by the end of it all, I felt strangely grateful for the awful detention we’d been put through, for it had forced me to prioritise what is important to me. I realised that golf, and this community, are too precious to ignore, and that in writing about it - about the people and the places, about the maddening game and its occasional miracles - I come alive. Engaged in the world, rather than just passing through.
Another pause was soon to follow - an intentional one, this time. A sabbatical that made no sense in terms of a career, but whose value went way beyond any superficial meaning. And to buy myself time to think deeply about this second half of life - my back nine, perhaps - I took to exploring the sort of golf I’d always meant to. A more rustic style of golf; the likes of Royal North Devon and Painswick.
The contemplation I found in travel would often be as revelatory as the golf, and I would return with a compulsion to note it all down, record it somehow. As if in doing so, I could cling on to those precious experiences a little longer; tag these memories before they slip away. And somehow my senses would be a little sharper as I hunted for details and listened for themes in these micro-adventures.
Of late, there’s been another break, from which you can probably tell I’m struggling to emerge. A bit of fear, I suppose - the same nervous self-critic that struggle to press “Send” on those early Stymied pieces in December ‘21. I needed to pause to get some other dreams off the ground - more to follow on that in the coming weeks - but having lost the streak, it hasn’t been easy to start back up again, though I furiously scrawl notes each morning in preparation.
And then one day, the theme that cracks the puzzle floats in, as effortlessly as the swing thought that once in a blue moon resolves my jumpy rhythm. I speak with a dear friend - a golfing master - about breaks, and brakes, and realise that the time has come to take the brakes off. A period of reflection has been helpful, but recent visits to places like Kington and The Addington, Cleeve Hill and Tandridge have been inspirational, and I am back in that space where I can no longer not write about this daft pastime of ours.
So this new version of the blog - pitchmarks - should hit your mailbox every Sunday from now on, and I hope you find just a fraction of the joy in reading this stuff as I take from writing it. And it may include some new little trials - a guest piece here and there, to celebrate the gorgeous prose of others, and some mention of other “stuff” that others might like, too. And maybe as a result you might need to actually take a break to read and digest pitchmarks, but that is the intention.
So if you discover a suitable window in your busy schedule, find a comfy chair and make yourself a decent coffee, or pour a nice drop of malt. Gift yourself a pause, for you deserve it. And in the meantime, here’s a piece that went out in the Sounder Players’ Journal recently - on my love for the half-set, and pencil bags: One Man and His Bag.
Wonderful to hear you are back in the flow, Richard. I have been meaning to check in with you. This game needs the uniqueness of your perspective and the clarity of your voice, now more than ever. I look forward to your Sunday missives.
Your writing is wonderful. I find much to identify with in your words