Saturday, April 28, 2018
Helter Skelter Golf
It was one of those days when, after one hole, you decided/knew that no matter what you attempted, your swing would not agree to it. It had gone Benedict Arnold off the first tee and decided to “freelance” and pretend your arms were no longer attached to your body.
I announced to Coach and Fred that this would be a “practice” day, that I would not keep score, that I needed to “find my game, my swing.” The nods were weak and without understanding at first. In time, they both came to realize that the only thing missing in my cart was a robot saying, “Danger Will Robinson, Danger!”
Lost again in my own space! Who pulls the carrot? Who is the sadistic SOB that one week lets achievement permeate the game only to be ripped back like a bandaid being removed from a hairy chest? What did I do? What sin was it that drew the world back in revulsion, hands covering mouths and heads shaking in disapproval?
Meanwhile Fred’s and Coach’s swings are mimicking a goddamn pendulum! Fred is offering advice and I’m trying. Coach is not completely sure I am no longer armed, so he has decided to look at me like, “Yeah, I lost my cat once, too …”
So. I’ve decided: I must be shrinking. Oh, it’s nearly imperceptible, but it is happening. I can hear my voice rising an octave in the morning. My feet are not fitting my shoes—this explains it all! My clubs are no longer “fitted” right—I need to begin choking up on them! The shrinking will cost me a fortune in clothes. I’ll have to move my seat up in my new car every other day. Yeah, yeah, that’s it—I’m shrinking! I’m going to end up in a spider’s web with Vincent Price shaking his head, saying, “If only he had found his game!”
… and summer is just starting!
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