Thursday, July 24, 2008

With tee time lurching closer every second now, I decided to hit the range tonight in a desperate effort to get myself street-legal, opting this round for God’s green, unforgiving earth rather than a mat. Half an hour into rearranging the proprietor’s dirt for free, in a scenario hailing most certainly from an alternate reality, Boss G and the Operator–an awesome band name I hereby claim–appeared on the scene with a small, white dog and advice.

There were sound reminders, to be sure, about balance, backswings, and concentration, but what was invaluable was this idea of relaxed focus. Finding the quiet in the noise. I’m convinced now my refusal to seek expert instruction may just carry me far enough. Expertise isn’t my goal, after all. I don’t want to pay through the nose for some fossil to tell me to contort this way or that, as if I were in Cirque or some such shit, simply because golf lore dictates it.

It’s proficiency I want, which is a commodity readily available through this confederacy of peers, intuition, and the Internet. So, this Saturday. A slightly different green mile, one that’s manicured and properly fertilized, but a green mile nonetheless. I’m calm now. This may be because I’ve already resigned myself to disaster.