Tuesday, May 5, 2009

For the first time in golf history, across the state line in a secluded course on a lazy Sunday afternoon, I knew what it felt like to be a competent player. You wouldn’t have gathered this from my score, which at 126 was 16 shy of my personal goal and 26 away from mediocrity, but it was the mojo poured into those swings that mattered. Something clicked on the back nine, caused my disdain for the sport to subside, and brought me hope that, with enough sweat equity, I would have the capacity to be proficient.

There was just something in the backswing that suddenly made sense. I’ve noticed decent players are able to jump right back into the game, even if they haven’t touched a club in months. This seems to suggest some kind of muscle memory at work here, kind of like riding a bike, except the proverbial bike in this case has square wheels and a handlebar fashioned from the bones of children. But that’s neither here nor there. The moment of clarity wasn’t an epiphany or anything having to do with thinking. It was a feeling, explicit instructions coded in my gut for how my arms should function in concert with my torso to get that stupid ball off the ground.

Now it’s time to work on the short game. This isn’t to say I’ve got my long game in the bag. Far from it, in fact, and I’m certain I’ll regress in short order. That’s just how the normal trajectory of learning new things resolves itself, you know? Be it written, though, that I have climbed to the top of the mountain and I have seen the face of golf, terrible and true, and I am changed! Actually, what really happened was I clambered onto a small hill, upon which I witnessed a wild turkey scurrying across the green.