Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Strictly speaking, I’ve yet to reinstate my golf career in any appreciable capacity, and it will remain as such until I play a full round. It’s been a while. A long while. My last trip to the range was 10 months ago, and the last time I stood on the 18th, anywhere, is shrouded in the mists of history, 18 months back or thereabouts. So when I held my 7-iron aloft this weekend, it was like reconnecting with an old friend–one whom I periodically wanted to kill.

It was an article from the New York Times that prompted me to go, frankly, something about how regular exercise could make my neurons better. I don’t know if the scientists who conducted the study considered how rage figured into the equation, so perhaps I can furnish some data. I’m kidding, of course. There were few thoughts of violence. In truth, I honored my pledge to take a calmer approach to golf. After all, so many people play it, wielding their irons so effortlessly. The core premise is simple, too: do as much as you can to ensure your club head returns to the exact same spot. Easy, right?

Of the 70 balls I rented on Sunday, only a third made it off the ground. But in my newfound serenity, I wasn’t angry at all, no. In fact, I was optimistic–so fucking optimistic, since I knew in my heart of hearts I could’ve fared far worse. I persisted. Finished the bucket. And then today, under a clear afternoon sky, I upped my percentage to two-thirds. The consecutive shots gave me the most hope: three in a row, then four, then five, before skyrocketing to single digits unknown. I tried to cherish every shot, regardless of whether the ball took flight or didn’t. The best part? No blisters on any fingers yet. I used to think of them as proof that my hands were crying, but no more! I have overcome. Now, naught but my soul weeps in the great, green void.