Have you ever noticed what golf spells backwards?

Al Boliska, with the sharp tongue of a humorist and the eyes of a philosopher, once asked: “Have you ever noticed what golf spells backwards?” At first, these words strike the ear as a jest, a light play on letters. Yet behind the laughter there lingers a deeper truth. For the word golf, when reversed, forms flog—a word of struggle, hardship, and relentless effort. Thus, in a single question, Boliska captures the very paradox of the game: golf is at once a sport of grace and torment, of calm surfaces hiding storms within.

The heart of this saying lies in the duality of pleasure and suffering. Golf, with its rolling greens and quiet landscapes, seems a gentle pastime. Yet those who step upon its course soon discover the hidden cruelty of the game: the ball that refuses to obey, the putt that veers at the last moment, the swing that betrays its master. To play golf is to experience both serenity and frustration, joy and despair. In calling us to notice its backward spelling, Boliska wove humor into truth: that behind the elegance of the game is also the flogging of one’s patience and pride.

History offers us echoes of this irony. The game of Sisyphus, pushing his stone eternally uphill only to see it roll back down, mirrors the frustration of golfers repeating the same strokes with endless variance. Even great champions, men like Ben Hogan or Arnold Palmer, spoke often of the torment of the sport, how one could practice tirelessly and still be betrayed by the smallest lapse. Yet, like Sisyphus, golfers return again and again—not because they are fools, but because in the midst of the flogging lies the possibility of transcendence, the rare moment when ball, swing, and will become one.

Boliska’s jest also carries a universal lesson beyond the course. For life itself often feels like golf spelled backwards. We set our goals, we make our plans, and yet we find ourselves flogged by fate, by disappointment, by trials we did not foresee. And yet, just as in golf, it is precisely these trials that make the small victories sweet. To reach the green after many failed swings, to sink the putt after countless misses—this joy is born not despite struggle, but because of it.

Consider the story of Thomas Edison, who endured thousands of failures before perfecting the electric light. To many, his attempts looked like flogging—a relentless beating of hope against resistance. But Edison himself said, “I have not failed. I have found 10,000 ways that won’t work.” In his perseverance, we see the truth of Boliska’s quip: that the struggle itself is the essence, and that laughter along the way is as necessary as effort.

The lesson, then, is clear: when you encounter frustration, when life feels like a flogging, do not despair. Instead, see it as part of the game, part of the course you must walk. Laugh, as Boliska laughed, at the irony of it. Accept that struggle and joy are bound together, that elegance and torment often live side by side. And remember that the sweetness of victory is sharpened by the sting of defeat.

So I say to you: when you play the game of life—or the game of golf—do not curse the flogging. Embrace it, endure it, and let it shape your patience and humility. For in the end, it is not only about the ball and the hole, but about the spirit forged in the effort. And if you can laugh, as Boliska did, at the irony of it all, you will carry not just skill, but wisdom—wisdom enough to see in every flogging the seed of triumph.