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Pravin Kumar
Age: 61 Zodiac: 
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 Posted: Mon Aug 03, 2009 9:36 am |
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Why Do We Dream?
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Golf Book
By Cliff Schrock
The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dream.
~Eleanor Roosevelt
Some say our nightly escapes are extensions of reality. Others say our dreams are predictors of the future, as the Biblical Joseph was adept at interpreting.
Both views have merit, but one must take into account whether the dream in question is unconscious or conscious, nocturnal or day. When a rookie makes his debut at The Masters, for instance, he's usually quoted at some point as saying, "It's always been a dream of mine to play The Masters." This falls under the latter, daydream category, a goal we hope to achieve through some extraordinary effort often yet to be shown. It's the same as when we "dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair." We desire a relationship with the girl of our dreams, although we feel inadequate in our crooning.
I, however, am for the moment more interested in the dreams we have when we shut our eyes, the ones fantastical and outrageous in scope. Particularly, what am I to make of this recurring golf dream I've had a few times over the years? It goes like this:
I'm playing The Masters, but there's nothing specific about the people around me. I don't know who my fellow competitor is. There is the usual big crowd around the first tee, the course is in Masters magnificent shape, and I'm called to tee off. "Fore, please, Cliff Schrock now driving." I bend over to tee the ball, step back and address it, but before I can take the club back, the ball falls off the tee. I calmly bend over, re-tee, and set-up once more, but the ball falls off again. The dream continues with this comedy routine (although I never get razzed by the gallery). I never do tee off, never get to hit a shot, and the dream fades away to no conclusion.
I've developed a few theories about what the dream means, approaching it from the angle that this is an interpretive dream about my life.
Theory No. 1: I'm a success at golf. Even though I don't strike a shot at the Masters, the fact that I'm on that grand stage indicates I've shown some golfing prowess and have a legacy to be proud of.
Theory No. 2: I'm a failure at golf. The Masters background is just a tease. It symbolizes what I've hoped to achieve as a golfer, but because I don't step off the first tee, it indicates I'm just a pretender, a 12-handicap wannabe who can't play with the big boys. I'm not even allowed on the course with them.
Theory No. 3: It's a windy day at Augusta and it's just my bad luck that I got such a lousy day to play one of the world's most magnificent courses. But because everyone else is playing in the same conditions, I'm on equal footing with the field. The dream shows how the breaks usually level out in golf.
Theory No. 4: An amalgam of the above. The dream illustrates that I love to play the game, that I would have liked to have played at the highest level. As some consolation, it shows I have a natural competitiveness because I keep on re-teeing the darn ball. I'm determined to make a go of it despite all the circumstances against me. The fact that no one else stands out in the dream reflects the solitary nature of golf and how we only get out of it what we put into it. As a golfer who has played for more than thirty-five years, I find my passion hasn't abated, but my patience has worn thin. I feel time is running out to achieve a repeatable, dependable swing.
Some may find this peculiar, though other die-hards may wish they had had such maniacal foresight. I have kept track of every under-par hole I've ever made. I have had a double eagle, two eagles and 493 birdies at eighty-two courses. When No. 500 comes I expect it to be quite memorable. I have logged all my rounds played since 1984, from my old home muni of Highland Park in Bloomington, Illinois, to Winged Foot, Pine Valley and the Old Course. I've tracked fairways and greens hit, as well as number of putts. I look back at these rounds and read all the pithy comments I made about them. "Worst performance since moving to Connecticut," I wrote of a 97 in 1987. "Give it up," I noted after a round in 1990.
But I've been more complimentary lately, and have learned to be kinder to myself--being my "own best friend" as Bob Rotella would say--praising either my "eight one-putts" or my "parring of the last six holes."
I like Theory No. 4 because I think it speaks to all golfers who have a passion to play the game, yet lack the talent and wherewithal to be anything better than a regular Joe. Once the game has sunk its teeth in us, we have no choice but to stay strong mentally, keep striving to improve, and take the highs and lows with equal amounts of dignity.
And in the end, there's nothing wrong--or better--than dreaming of great things to come.
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