New York Times Book Reviews By Holly Brubach (excerpt)
THE DOWNHILL LIE
A Hacker’s Return to a Ruinous Sport.
By Carl Hiaasen.
207 pp. Alfred A. Knopf. $22.
It takes a certain kind of person to have fun playing golf. Carl Hiaasen is not that kind of person. The author of antic novels (“Strip Tease,” “Skinny Dip,” “Nature Girl”), Hiaasen writes books that are fun to read, and “The Downhill Lie” is no exception. But while the escapades of his fictional characters — a ragtag cast of slackers, drifters, drug runners, litterbugs, lobbyists, poachers and other indigenous forms of Florida lowlife — strike most readers as impossibly exotic, Hiaasen’s hilarious misadventures on the golf course are all too familiar to anyone who has ever flailed at the ball in futile attempts to conquer a sport that mercilessly strips us of our dignity.
Like many children looking to spend time with their fathers, Hiaasen took up the game at an early age, “too young,” he writes, “to realize that my disposition was ill suited to a recreation that requires infinite patience and eternal optimism.” In 1973, soon after his best round (an 88), he quit.
Now, after “a much-needed layoff of 32 years,” he’s back at it, and his slice is intact. He keeps a journal, recording his progress or the lack of it, remarking on new courses hemmed in by condos, familiarizing himself with rescue clubs and other equipment invented during his absence. A pro sizes up his swing and tells him his driver is too stiff. “That’s not what his wife says,” his wiseacre friend replies.
A new driver buys him extra distance off the tee, sending his slice careening even farther from the fairway. It quickly becomes apparent that Hiaasen’s psychological makeup is no better suited to golf now that he’s in his 50s. For one thing, he’s a knee-jerk perfectionist whose inner game rapidly lapses into a litany of self-reproach. Every flubbed shot is the outward sign of a flawed character. To make matters worse, Hiaasen, like most writers, is a solitary animal, and golf is a social sport. When he makes eagle — his first — there are no witnesses, thanks to his penchant for playing alone.
Consulting books by the experts, Hiaasen comes across this tall order from Bob Rotella, the sports psychologist: “On the first tee, a golfer must expect only two things of himself: to have fun, and to focus his mind properly on every shot.” A friend agrees to join him in a tournament on one condition: “Promise me you’ll have fun.” Meanwhile, his wife and son sign up for lessons and ... they think it’s fun! Hiaasen writes as if he were the only golfer out there who isn’t having a good time. Is golf fun? I wouldn’t know. In my experience, it’s a lot like writing — exhilarating when you get it right, and the rest of the time it’s torture.
While the journal format doesn’t allow Hiaasen much occasion to exercise his flawless ear for dialogue, it does give us a chance to hear the voice in his own head. His preoccupations emerge as themes here: a midlife awareness of the physical decay that aging brings, a stubborn resolve to prove himself the exception, memories of his father, hope in his son.
After the big tournament, he calls his mother to fill her in on his disappointing performance. So he didn’t have fun? she asks.
“Again with the fun.”