Getting Fitted!

Frank measures my hands (notes they’re large for a man my size). I remind him of what that means, and he nods blankly and then measures my longest finger to my wrist, my hands to the floor, my shoe size, my hair color, my grades in college, and my ability to recite the Pledge of Allegiance backwards.

On the range it gets much more technical. We experiment with lofts and angles, shafts and weights, swing speed and finally my Zodiac sign. I tell Frank I’m a Capricorn and he scolds me for not telling him right off, then says, “Forget everything I’ve said, hinted, or suggested; you Capricorns are like that one spike you can’t get out of your shoe. Stock Titleist will do fine, good luck with those …” He walks off the range talking to himself about his time being wasted and why God made Capricorns in the first place, especially left-handed ones—and that’ll be $900 and an extra $100 for a wasted fitting!

Still. I’m excited about the new sticks. I have no expectations that they will improve my game; improvements are things you do to your house and the way you feel after a haircut—or should. Fact is, living up to “better” new irons only makes me think of that Shakespeare quote: “He thinks a shank behind every swing”—or something like that. I am one of those people who believes that I need to hide my new purchase from my current Callaway irons, lest they conspire in resentment. Superstition runs in my genes, or so say my results from that DNA thing, “23 and Me.” 

I bit the bullet. My reasoning is that a falling Chinese space station might hit me when it “lands,” and my opportunity ever to make the purchase will be gone forever, or until my next life—though with my luck, I’ll come back as a divot!