In the Star Trek universe, an instrument called a “painstik” is used by Klingon warriors for purposes ranging from torture to marking ritualistic events in a warrior’s life.

This is remarkable for a couple of reasons.

First, given how much trouble “Star Trek” konlangers have gone through over the years to create a distinctive Klingon language — for instance, the chant during the rite of ascension goes something like this: “DaHjaj SuvwI’e’ jIH. tIqwIj Sa’angnIS.’Iw bIQtIqDaq jIjaH” (“Today I am a warrior. I must show you my heart. I travel the River of Blood.”) — well, you’d think they would resort to a word less on the nose about the implement used in the ceremony.

The other fascinating aspect of Klingon painstiks is that their purposes — from inflicting incredible pain to marking significant success — bare a striking similarity to implements with which many weekend warriors are all too familiar.

We call them “golf clubs.”

The major difference between them being that painstiks are much easier to use. (Parenthetically, perhaps this is why when you search for the Klingon word for “golf,” you find multiple responses — all dealing with sending projectiles toward an intended goal-zone.)

Prod someone with a painstik, they feel it immediately. Hit a ball with any of the 13 or so clubs golfers might carry in their bags, and the torture can come in any of several moments — the swing, the contact, the flight (or lack thereof), a sudden shift in the wind, a ball deciding on its own to hook or slice, the roll (or lack thereof), a bad bounce, or coming to rest in sand, high grass, water, or behind a tree.

Klingons who undergo, according to the Memory Alpha archive of all things Trek, “a spiritual test to find inner strength through physical suffering” are getting off easy in comparison.

However, since those of us who play golf are not citizens of the Klingon Empire — at least not until Inauguration Day, after which all bets are off — we simply inflict this pain upon ourselves.

I will be the first to admit that I am not a great golfer. I will also be the first to admit that I am not a good golfer.

What I am is a golfer getting incrementally better who occasionally can send a yellow, dimpled projectile toward the intended goal-zone in the proscribed number of strokes.

For this, the warriors with whom I play bestowed upon me the title of “Most Improved” — which, I found out, was an honor that came with the privilege of buying the first round of drinks at the 19th hole.

(As with the case with many of the rules of golf, I suspect they made this up on the spur of the moment.)

Still, as I said, my game is improving … with the help of others.

I have been advised, among other things, to focus on maintaining my posture, keeping my head still, creating a repeatable tempo, swinging smoothly (and not too fast), teeing the ball up higher (or lower, as the case may be), aligning my feet properly … and, most importantly, do all of the above without thinking too much about what I’m trying to accomplish.

Let’s see an aspiring Klingon warrior do that without hightailing it back to the nearest painstik pavilion, while wishing they actually had tear ducts.

The odd thing about all this is that I enjoy the time spent not being great (or even good) out on the golf course. I begin each round with specific goals — and an overall goal for the summer — and as long as I feel progress is being made, the mis-hits and mishaps take far less of a toll than they once did.

If that sounds like a philosophy to follow off the course as well, then maybe I’m learning more than I realized.

As usual, there is a Klingon proverb that says it more succinctly … yIn DayajmeH ‘oy’ yISIQ.

Now, who can argue with that?