By the way, Coach shot 48/38!
Monday, April 22, 2019
Remarkable shots on the 16th!
Sam is 92 yards out. He nearly holes his wedge shot, in fact for a moment we thought it was in the hole! Phelps, not to be outdone, sends his monster chips tickling over half the hole. Both shots are smile-makers! And yes, they made their putts ...
By the way, Coach shot 48/38!
By the way, Coach shot 48/38!
Tuesday, April 16, 2019
It can happen to you!
Absent the Gratitude for Distance
It was a short search for my old Titleist 2 iron. It has sat unemployed for two to three decades, replaced of course with hybrid promises and more forgiving irons that bragged a higher number with similar distance. And so the ancient remedy for narrow fairways off the tee became just another forgotten implement in the haversacks that sat cobwebbed “over there” in my garage.
My recent set of injuries and my absence from games of golf have once again reaffirmed that staying at home with wishes and lawns to mow is my last choice on the menu. My small stack of books to read might be a temporary benefactor, save for the fact that three sentences into any page, I realize I’m moving the lines but retaining nothing. It’s Monday and I should be out there, with the guys, planting a tee and sending a white orb into who knows where, without a care.
Yoda (Phelps) offered up a stick-‘em pad applied to a painful area that offers relief (a hat should be made of one of these for those days when “something wicked this way comes”). Anyway, a trip to CVS and pads bought, brace for the hand to protect the thumb, and my search for a resentful two-iron completed, and I’m hopeful I can walk with a measure of dignity even if only occasionally on a fairway.
I’ll play with Wayne “The Hat” and Phelps, using only the relic off the tee, and I’ll try to stay out of the team’s way. Of course I ask if it’s okay, and they all respond with encouragement. And of course I know they’re all thinking they’d rather have to play wearing a fucking eye patch, but they don’t say it. My initial swing with the two-iron is awkward as hell; first, it feels like I’m swinging a rake—the club feels way too long, and missing the sweet-spot brings back a memory of when I played with blades and it was painful to miss anything but the center of the face. The ball thankfully goes reasonably straight and lands on the fairway in an area I wouldn’t normally be grateful for. I am absent the gratitude for distance, and so it would continue throughout the round.
The interesting part of the day was the acceptance and resignation that even when I hit the dinosaur well (which was rare), I was more often than not having to request a follow-up strike. It was a different course, strategy, expectation. Although it would all be practice, I could feel the threat in my right hand at the very top of my swing and at the very end of it. It is impossible to relate, describe, or define what it feels like at full strength, but here’s an attempt:
1956. I am dumber than shoelaces. I figure I can make a grilled cheese sandwich by putting a slice of Kraft American cheese in the toaster with a slice of Kilpatrick’s white bread (hell, it was all white bread back then). I’m quite proud of myself until the smoke begins to flee from the toaster and the smell of smoke fills the kitchen. I stare into the bottom of the toaster and realize the cheese, which now looks like peanut butter, has successfully resisted my idea and clearly will not exit voluntarily. I find a butter knife and proceed to scrape, and suddenly I’m on the floor across the kitchen. My mother hears the incident and finds me splayed on the floor. It takes her about three seconds to assess the circumstances. Sixty-four years later I can vividly see her expression, which still reads: “I should find you a plastic bag to play with and just get it done with now!” And I also retained that shock, that nth degree of pain, that grabs every nerve ending and screams “Banzai!”
So. Aside from the pain, I have to endure the penalty of my mother’s look 64 years ago! I spend half the day trying to find more from a two-iron bought when Carter was president than it was originally expected to produce, until Lyle and Phelps both tell me, “You’re looking up.” Slower swing, staying with it longer, and resigning myself to one day only being able to hit my driver as far, I accept that I need to be grateful for the opportunity to be out on a beautiful day, playing with guys trying to score, and appreciating the last time I seriously used this fossil in my hand: I wore bell-bottom pants so tight you could see the mint mark on a dime in my pocket; boots; open, wide-neck shirt (no, scratch that, never did, hated those) and no chains; dated a girl named Irene, who, as pretty as she was, made me look as she walked away every time she did. But that’s another story, isn’t it?
Monday was golf, and I was present.
It was a short search for my old Titleist 2 iron. It has sat unemployed for two to three decades, replaced of course with hybrid promises and more forgiving irons that bragged a higher number with similar distance. And so the ancient remedy for narrow fairways off the tee became just another forgotten implement in the haversacks that sat cobwebbed “over there” in my garage.
My recent set of injuries and my absence from games of golf have once again reaffirmed that staying at home with wishes and lawns to mow is my last choice on the menu. My small stack of books to read might be a temporary benefactor, save for the fact that three sentences into any page, I realize I’m moving the lines but retaining nothing. It’s Monday and I should be out there, with the guys, planting a tee and sending a white orb into who knows where, without a care.
Yoda (Phelps) offered up a stick-‘em pad applied to a painful area that offers relief (a hat should be made of one of these for those days when “something wicked this way comes”). Anyway, a trip to CVS and pads bought, brace for the hand to protect the thumb, and my search for a resentful two-iron completed, and I’m hopeful I can walk with a measure of dignity even if only occasionally on a fairway.
I’ll play with Wayne “The Hat” and Phelps, using only the relic off the tee, and I’ll try to stay out of the team’s way. Of course I ask if it’s okay, and they all respond with encouragement. And of course I know they’re all thinking they’d rather have to play wearing a fucking eye patch, but they don’t say it. My initial swing with the two-iron is awkward as hell; first, it feels like I’m swinging a rake—the club feels way too long, and missing the sweet-spot brings back a memory of when I played with blades and it was painful to miss anything but the center of the face. The ball thankfully goes reasonably straight and lands on the fairway in an area I wouldn’t normally be grateful for. I am absent the gratitude for distance, and so it would continue throughout the round.
The interesting part of the day was the acceptance and resignation that even when I hit the dinosaur well (which was rare), I was more often than not having to request a follow-up strike. It was a different course, strategy, expectation. Although it would all be practice, I could feel the threat in my right hand at the very top of my swing and at the very end of it. It is impossible to relate, describe, or define what it feels like at full strength, but here’s an attempt:
1956. I am dumber than shoelaces. I figure I can make a grilled cheese sandwich by putting a slice of Kraft American cheese in the toaster with a slice of Kilpatrick’s white bread (hell, it was all white bread back then). I’m quite proud of myself until the smoke begins to flee from the toaster and the smell of smoke fills the kitchen. I stare into the bottom of the toaster and realize the cheese, which now looks like peanut butter, has successfully resisted my idea and clearly will not exit voluntarily. I find a butter knife and proceed to scrape, and suddenly I’m on the floor across the kitchen. My mother hears the incident and finds me splayed on the floor. It takes her about three seconds to assess the circumstances. Sixty-four years later I can vividly see her expression, which still reads: “I should find you a plastic bag to play with and just get it done with now!” And I also retained that shock, that nth degree of pain, that grabs every nerve ending and screams “Banzai!”
So. Aside from the pain, I have to endure the penalty of my mother’s look 64 years ago! I spend half the day trying to find more from a two-iron bought when Carter was president than it was originally expected to produce, until Lyle and Phelps both tell me, “You’re looking up.” Slower swing, staying with it longer, and resigning myself to one day only being able to hit my driver as far, I accept that I need to be grateful for the opportunity to be out on a beautiful day, playing with guys trying to score, and appreciating the last time I seriously used this fossil in my hand: I wore bell-bottom pants so tight you could see the mint mark on a dime in my pocket; boots; open, wide-neck shirt (no, scratch that, never did, hated those) and no chains; dated a girl named Irene, who, as pretty as she was, made me look as she walked away every time she did. But that’s another story, isn’t it?
Monday was golf, and I was present.
Monday, April 15, 2019
Tuesday, April 2, 2019
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