Watching golf on television, preferably on a Sunday afternoon, is a divine daydream. It’s often mocked as a simple spectator sport, but mockers don’t delve into its gentle undulations, nor do they turn the spectacle down to a moderate, almost whispery volume. If they did, they would understand its glory.
First, it’s a perfect excuse for a snack: some cheese and crackers, a frosty Arnold Palmer. These are minor delights themselves, but they are especially delightful as the sedate voices and polite-clapping emanate from the tube, lulling you. After gratuitous amounts of crackers and about half-an-hour, you develop a pleasant low-level food coma, a buzzy, light-headed satiety that can only be improved by floating in and out of a postprandial nap.
Perfect.
If you wake, you’re treated to a fantastical world of lush, landscaped environments, populated by well-off middle-aged men wearing collared shirts and visors, watching athletes who display undeniable physical skill, yet don’t sweat. These country-club ideals traipse across the course in moderately flattering plaid pants and pink polos while caddy-servants carry their accoutrements and advise them on their next shot. Every ten minutes, commercials for overactive bladder syndrome, Fidelity’s retirement planning service, and Prudential parade past. Then, a return to telecast: a delayed-action putt taken during break, some milquetoast commentary and finally live action, where Sergio Garcia contemplates an eighty-yard wedge shot, his squinting eyes full of preternatural seriousness. The sport is simple: hit the ball in the hole. Yet it’s seldom treated that way — with the announcers’ hushed tones and the near-continual reminders of the honor and integrity of “the great game of golf” — the broadcast itself is noblesse oblige.
You wobble. You have a choice: slip back into sweet sleep or continue watching the absurd-yet-soothing pretensions before you. Either way, it’s a lovely, dreamy Sunday afternoon.
[...] is a review of watching golf on TV. [...]