The Merlin Controversy, Or How I Learned to Loathe the Enigma

With heavy guilt but heavier curiosity and expectation, I drew “the enigma” from my bag. Actually, let’s just name the damn thing Enigma, and leave it at that.  
The title became obvious as the first day of attempted use drew deeper into the round. 
First swing with Enigma (after a flailing toe drive) landed me a mile away on the par four 3rd. I anxiously removed Enigma from its sheath and smiled at its perfect form, reflection, and promise. 205 uphill from the rough was an excellent first challenge for this pristine Darth Vader-looking instrument. I could feel the other clubs wrestling in the bag for a vantage point to watch the initiation of the “fairway crusades.” Discomfort momentarily took me as I again acknowledged that Merlin had a much larger face and body; Enigma looked like a hockey puck on a stiff wire by comparison.
A couple of stiff and somewhat awkward practices swings: I told Enigma that was something Merlin handled in time, the “that” being Wade talking about his game fortissimo without pause, Lyle’s attempt to throw everyone off by donning a “normal” baseball cap designed in some Third World country where a golf ball never resided, and Dick’s fresh boring interest in the middle of the fairway, explaining that his stance, his lance, and a tip that came from the Dirty Donkey changed his life.
 I wondered if all that was going to nullify an agreement I had yet to consummate with Enigma. Alas, I digress. Back swing in motion I can feel the eyes, irons, and tees listening for a response:  
Dead Block left—OB.

Enigma was not having any of me.  

A failed search and subsequent re-hit showed me that Enigma can hook at will, and seemed to enjoy it. The impact on the face, even when it seemed middle-face and “sweet,” felt dull, that line drive to center where the fielder can see the near non-moving stitching on the knuckling orb coming at him mach 5; it was just … odd! 
It all became doubt, when on the twelfth my second shot with Enigma landed me in the red-staked area to the left of the middle fairway tree, 190 out, uphill, into a small breeze and daunting oak that would require vaulting. I chose not to use the black curse again but to use Merlin’s sister club, Hybrid 4: it was an unreasonable attempt and felt more like a Hail Mary or a who-gives-a-shit try. The grip and swing were like home, and the ball, once struck, made an immediate rise to the distance and trajectory required. It took forever before it landed, but it did land—and where it was intended. I was in a state of  complete guilt. Sister Merlin sauntered back into the bag and just shrugged a “no big deal really.”
The Enigma had lowered my shoulders and my wallet; I was wondering if I could talk Riva into a “fresh purchase.” I can see the ad now:
“Barely used Titleist 3 917 F3: Used only one round and hit five times with zero effectiveness.”
Yeah, that’ll bring a sale for sure.  
Did I buy a grown-up toy I had no chance to grow up to?
Did Karma shrink one of my slippers in spite?
Was Merlin’s gracious exit an act, a “You’ll see, you’ll be begging me to come back” ploy?
Tune in next week when the soap opera of “Raggio’s Bag” continues …