I have mentioned before that I am not a good golfer. Blind men and people with physical afflictions have lower handicaps than I do. And I have also mentioned before that my daughter Kara is an excellent golfer. And as a good mother I supported her talent. And so I would take Kara golfing at twilight sometimes so she could improve her game with the added benefit of spending one-on-one time with her.
I prefer the front 9 at Cherry Valley to the back. I just think it is prettier and even though the rating is higher, I think it is easier-- except for one hole—#6—the water hole. When you are not a terribly good golfer any hole with a water feature—and by water feature I mean even a hole with a puddle---plays games with your head. And when I was a beginner golfer, and not very confident, and at the sixth hole, I plunked my ball into the pond every time---and I mean every time. When I first began golfing, the best I could do was hit the ball into the reeds bordering the pond-- which still rendered it a miserable shot—unplayable. And I would always have to take a “drop” and a penalty stroke (or 2).
When I was a new golfer, and Kara was around 11 or 12 years old, we played on a weekday summer night. And as we approached the tee box on hole #6 we bumped into another mother-daughter team who had just finished up on hole #3 (the tee box at #6 and the green at #3 lie back to back.) And I was pretty friendly with the mother of the other group. In fact I liked the woman very very much. The woman was an excellent athlete. But that is not why I liked her. I liked her because she spoke unfiltered thoughts. And her unbridled candor often irritated the tightly jaw clenched Garden City women who felt her self-assuredness and unremorsefulness was socially inappropriate. That’s precisely why I liked her. She was real. She was always unpretentious. She said what she meant and meant what she said. And she just didn’t care if people thought she was socially inappropriate. Not only didn’t she care, she told everyone that would listen that she didn’t care.
Anyway when this woman saw Kara and I and she came over and hugged and kissed us hello. And it was awkward—not because she had crossed the social intimacy line—she hadn’t. It was because physically she is so much larger than I—she towers over me by a good 12 inches. So when she hugs and kisses me it is like a preying mantis kissing a fruit fly.
And when the woman asked if she could watch our tee shots I knew she meant nothing evil—she was merely curious as to what our golf swings were like. Which didn’t mean I was comfortable about it in any way—not only was this atypical golf course etiquette, but I did not wish for her to see me plunk my ball into the pond like I had done every other time I was at hole #6.
And so I was stuck. I didn’t want her to watch me hit the ball nor did I want her to know that I was uncomfortable with the idea. So I told Kara to hit first—not because she had “honors” but because I secretly was hoping that once this woman saw Kara hit the ball maybe she would change her mind about watching me. And Kara hit her drive and of course, as she had talent, it sailed across the pond deep into the middle of the fairway. And the woman clapped and was deeply impressed. And damn it, she looked at me, and expected me to hit next-- it was my turn—and she wasn’t going anywhere until I hit my drive. And I started praying to St Jude of the Impossible that just this one time my ball would get to the other side of the pond—it didn’t even have to be in the fairway—I just want it on the other side of the water in the rough. And the woman was watching me and I was trying to think positive thoughts and I took my backswing and thwack I hit my drive. And St. Jude was listening. And he was more than kind. My drive not only flew across the pond, it landed past Kara’s shot. I was an iron shot away from the green. It was unbelievable. I had no idea I had it in me. And the woman said Wow I didn’t know you were such a big hitter. And I smiled and shrugged. I was NOT going to let her know I had never done that before. And Kara was giggling and said Good shot Mom. And we (the woman and I) kissed again (even though it was physically awkward) and continued on with our games.
Here’s the thing about golf. A perfect shot is like a first hit of heroin—the high you receive from reaching golf nirvana that first time only causes you to keep chasing the golf dragon again and again. And just like a heroin addict can never replicate that first perfect high, I never replicated that nirvana-like drive over the pond ever again. Oh I tried, and I had other great shots, they were never as perfect as that one on that night. And the woman who witnessed my shot went on to believe that I was a pretty good golfer—a big hitter--and from time to time she asked me to join her—but I of course always said no. I knew to fold that hand. And she never discovered that it was St Jude who channeled my body and hit that shot for me that day--because it was that impossibly good. And I owe St Jude big time---he’s a ringer with a scratch handicap who for no particular reason that day chose to demo my Calloway Big Bertha.
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