Back in the day when I considered myself an athlete, someone tried to teach me golf. My philosophy then was if there was no contact, it wasn’t a sport. No blood, no foul. Suck it up and get back in the game.
Hitting a tiny white ball towards an indiscernible hole 180+ yards away definitely did not qualify as a sport in the world according to me. It was dumb. It is an activity for old people. The only contact is when the club meets the ball.
Although hitting your ball in the water or sand usually instigates some additional contact; club contacting ground, club contacting knee, club contacting tree.
Two years ago, I got old. My knees hurt, my shoulder hurt, my back hurt, sports hurt. I needed an activity. I decided it was time to take up golf.
I went to a local driving range/golf school/pro shop, and paid someone to share the secret of golf with me. The secret turns out to be in your grip, in your swing, in your stance, in your mood, and in a miracle or two tucked somewhere next to your 9 iron.
I discovered that I had a natural ability for hitting the ball. As long as my grip, swing, stance and mood were all in line with my miracles. I could hit the ball, far and straight. Unless it went whistling into the trees. Or dribbled off the tee. Or splashing in the water.
I don’t mind the sand traps. As I don’t have a sand wedge, I just walk right in, pick up my ball and throw it in the general direction of the hole. AND I get to use the rake!
I go play with some of the younger guys I know.
It’s a good thing too, because my old eyes can’t follow the flight of the ball.