Down the rabbit hole

As legend has it, the game of golf began with shepherds passing the time by knocking stones into rabbit holes along the Scottish countryside. Out of boredom emerges evil genius. These Scots were also a philosophical bunch and they apparently thought it was a good idea to devise a game where the main point was to prove human fallibility and inadequacy on a stroke-by-stroke basis; while at the same time teasing the possibility that perfection was within reach.

Well they exceeded their wildest dreams. Every day the game of golf frustrates, enrages and exhilarates. How can one not help being drawn by the temptation of the rare eagle or the hope of eliminating the slice that has plagued you for the past thirty years? Hope and redemption don’t come cheap.

Which is why I find myself embarking on a pilgrimage to the mecca of golf: Scotland. Accompanied by friends who are dedicated to helping me on my spiritual journey, they will selflessly reinforce the memories of my worst and most humiliating moments. As such, I will emerge a stronger golfer and better human being. Fortunately, the Scots provided another innovation to soften the harsh reality of life and it’s follies: single malt whisky.