Couples celebrate 25 years of marriage as a silver wedding milestone. So what about 25 years of golfing friendship filled with a tapestry of golf’s cruel schools of thought?
Silver milestone?
Let’s simply call it the silver divots. Divots are that little chunk of grass or turf that gets dug out of the ground when you make a stroke.
In golf, divots mean a galaxy of things instead of mere ugly scars left by a golfer’s imperfections. They represent a myriad of possibilities that will play a big factor on one’s swing which leads to a huge impact on one’s scorecard and ultimately one’s moods.
My golfing buddy Chito Malabanan, Edge Davao’s resident golf columnist, and I have planned a reunion of sorts to mark 25 years of golfing friendship last year in Perth, Western Australia. He was in the Land Down Under where his daughter is practicing sub specialization as a new doctor in Melbourne. The plan did not materialize at the last minute.
The next plan was the recent Philippine Airlines’ 75th edition of the fabled Interclub held in Cagayan de Oro and Bukidnon. PAL extended to me an all expense paid invitation to play in the Interclub via PAL’s Direct Flights to Perth. Unfortunately, another last minute cancellation.
Tuesday morning at the Apo Golf and Country Club, the bedrock of golf in Davao City, that long overdue golfing reunion finally happened.
Chito picked me up at The Royal Mandaya Hotel and after a cup of brewed coffee, we drove to Apo via the scenic Davao Coastal Road and I took snaps of the majestic Mt. Apo from the brand spanking new traffic-busting road– a view rivalled only at Apo’s hole no. 10. Chito was into serious photography earlier than I did so it all adds up to the connection.
About the only thing we didn’t share at some point was our political views which we kept on the side, respecting our differences as part of that friendship.
Chito lent me his trusty old Ping irons and a Taylormade woods. Chito knows me by the back of his palm so if we play competitive golf, he knows how to “neutralize” me.
“Hey, where’s the long irons?” I asked.
Chito answered indirectly. “I got you a pair of fairway woods and a hybrid.”
“You still didn’t answer my question,” said me.
Chito snapped a sheepish grin. He knows I am an “iron man” who would pick long irons over fairway woods. Neutralization in process, I thought.
After a customary photo at hole no. 1, we hit our tee shots. Chito’s swing was nary a shadow of his old swaying swing. This time, I saw a swing as conservative as a provinciana girl who holds her skirt when the wind blows. But that conservative swing is as straight and stiff as a monastery’s Mother Superior, hovering in the air like a drone before landing on the pad like it was actively tracked to be there. I hit mine like a careless teenager issued his first driving license.
“You still pack that monster drive, pre.”
“I do, yes.”
“And the wayward direction too.”
We exploded in laughter as we began the round.. There were many more laughter shared throughout the trek around Apo’s tree-lined layout. Instead of accusing Chito for a conscious attempt at neutralizing me, the absence of my favorite irons served a purpose. Chito wanted me to slay my nightmares — hitting fairway woods and hybrids.
I struggled and began to feel this is going to be messed up all because I cannot hit woods and hybrids sweetly.
Then it dawned on me, golf is like courting a woman. You fall for her and you try to do what she loves. When you start doing them, she wants something else.
The reunion round transformed into the official launch of the Chito Malabanan Golf Academy. Chito as teacher, me as student. This one was much better than Butch Harmon’s Nevada school, or David Leadbetter and Jim McLean’s Florida or lessons at Pebble Beach, Bandon Dunes and Whistling Straits.
We finished the day surviving the 37-degree Davao heat. But we were unfinished. Unspent. Like those good old days in Lanang. After all those years, me and Chito treats golf as a pleasure. Not a challenge. If you play the game, you are as privileged as the shepherds of Scotland who hit pebbles at sand dunes in the 15th century.
Not everyone sees the beauty of such a killjoy sport. It is golf’s exacting demand for perfection that keeps men chasing it.
And the divots? They are your battle scars.
Cheers to the silver divots, pareng Chito.
