Sometimes I convince myself that there’s a higher being who lords over the sport of golf. In my head, this person is a man. He wears plaid knickers and a matching hat. He smokes long cigars, and he’s an ornery son of gun.

I hate his guts.

The way I see things, he’s the one to blame for my inconsistencies on the golf course. When I start thinking I’ve rediscovered my swing, I’ve figured it all out – I’m back, baby – that’s when he steps in:

“Oh no you don’t, chap. You haven’t figured anything out and you never will. You’re rubbish. You disgust me. Get off the course right now.”

And then it’s gone. All the confidence I had accumulated simply by making good contact disappears. The more frustrated I get, the louder I curse, the more I try to exorcise this demon of a being, the harder he laughs. It gets ugly.

Sometimes this higher being – for identification purposes and because he’s an Irishman we’ll call him Paddy McShankalot – let’s me think I’m good for entire rounds, weeks at a time even.

About five years ago, he let me shoot a 35 on the back nine at Franklin Park Municipal Golf Course in Boston. I felt so good about my game after that round that I became delusional: if I really buckled down and focused, I thought, maybe I could put together a nice amateur career and then turn pro when I was ready.

I’m not joking. I really thought this was a possibility, despite the fact that I shot a 50 on the front nine and my cumulative score of 85 was my personal best at that point.

McShankalot made sure to return balance to the world the next time I played. He began taunting me in the first tee box and never let up. Later that summer I temporarily retired from the game. (I took up fly-fishing for a month, caught nothing, and then announced – to no one in particular – that I was coming out of retirement for another go of it.)

Recently, our battles have intensified, and the timing couldn’t be worse.

The first weekend in May, I will travel to Vermont to play in a two-ball tournament with about a dozen college and high school friends. Last year, my playing partner Mark and I entered the final round in second place for our flight. Before teeing off, I picked out the driver I was going to buy with the pro shop credit I was about to win.

McShankalot was watching, ready to pounce:

“That’s a nice driver you’ve picked out, chap. Too bad it won’t be going home with you. And you know what else won’t be heading back to Maine with you, don’t you, mate? Your dignity. Have fun out there.”

By the second hole, my swing was gone. By the fifth, I was pre-occupied, incessantly complaining to Mark about the jeans-wearing sandbaggers we were paired with. By the turn, I was throwing my clubs farther than I was hitting my shots.

Mark didn’t play poorly, but he didn’t have enough to carry me either. We finished out of the money, and I stewed the whole ride home.

This year was going to be different. This year I would redeem myself. Thanks to a mild winter, I’d get in at least five or six practice rounds before heading to Vermont. I’d get my swing grooved, gain some confidence, triumphantly carry Mark off the 18th green on my shoulders – he’s a little feller – and then use my winnings to buy the new driver I so desperately need.

That’s how I hoped things would play out, anyway. Once again, McShankalot seems to have other ideas.

During my first trip to the driving range about a month ago, I was encouraged by how easily my swing came back. A week later, I headed out for my first round full of bravado.

Predictably, I started horribly. But I fought through. After picking up on the fourth and fifth holes, I made pars on seven and eight.

McShankalot was just teasing me, though, biding his time until that precise moment when the corners of my mouth turned upward into a smile. As soon as I began enjoying myself, he dropped the hammer on me. I skulked off the course after 12 holes, head down, thinking of ways to tell Mark he’d need to find a new partner.

I’ve played two times since. Both times, there have been encouraging signs that make me think I’m winning the battle.

But I know better; I’ll never win. I’ll never stop going back for more, though, either.

Keep your head up, Paddy.