In many ways, the highs and lows of my golf experience borrow liberally from Hollywood mainstays–the quiet triumph of a Ron Howard film, for instance, or the gritty terror of grainy horror shot on handheld. Amnesia is a common refrain, too, because I will frequently find myself on the driving range with little to no recollection of how to get the ball off the ground consistently. I will grind it out, of course, and manage to recapture some mojo, but there will be pieces missing, as if I were trying to recall a dream.
That’s the problem, basically. I know what a good shot feels like. I’ve got the taste. But reclaiming that taste is arduous, and any headway I make invariably takes a step or two backwards. This cycle repeats, and it occurred to me that I may as well commit the few tidbits I remember here in a kind of golf diary.
Stance is relaxed. I used to stand on the pads of my feet, but it’s, like, I’m not a frickin’ ballerina here. Firm grip, though not a death grip. Head completely still and trained on the ball. Easy backswing into a shoulder swivel. Then, and here’s the tip that was eye-opening last weekend, lead with my left hand as I make contact. We’re talking NASA-like levels of preparation here, I know. But it’s a ball, rather than a rocket ship, that I’m launching into the sky to punch through that grass ceiling.
Secondhand Rants will return on Thursday, September 27.
I couldn’t tell you where all 50 rounds went, obviously, but most of them hit the paper, specifically near the “X.” Of course, the fact that my target was only five yards away may have significantly enhanced my accuracy, but that would frankly be the glass-half-empty perspective. My glass-half-full self would say I’m absolutely lethal at point-blank range, given how dangerous I am at 15 feet.
Unlike my last trip to the range, there were no semi-automatics available this time. The firearm of choice, instead, was an old Smith & Wesson revolver, and it was an honest gun, best as I can describe it. Good heft, solid American construction, no fancy safeties or any of that balderdash. It was more typewriter than iPad in sensibility, and it grew on me in short order. I loved the ritual of pushing down on the ejector to expel casings, metallic milestones of my progress clattering all over the rangetop.
20 rounds double-action, 15 rounds single-action, and then another 15 double-action–a half-hour flew by in a blink. I even passed the flinch test, wherein my instructor left a chamber empty to see how I’d react upon firing a blank. I didn’t. A+. But as straightforward as my range time was, the two-and-a-half hours of instruction prior to it were decidedly more murky. That’s because the session simultaneously disproved and confirmed my fears about gun enthusiasts. The opening instructor was smart, cogent, and self-conscious. The other instructor, a champ target shooter who muttered the quote from Tuesday’s post? Not so much.
Let’s just say the postmortem Robocop quote from the Cat–what I could discern in between snickers, anyhow–was spot on. This fellow shared the oddest asides about marksmanship that would leave attendees slightly uncomfortable and befuddled. This was before he revealed his preferred ammo loadout, of course, or clicked through a racist slide in Powerpoint really quickly because there were black people present. Most chilling, however, was what I’d call the hair-trigger psyche. Throughout the presentation, he would illustrate techniques vis-à-vis an imaginary assailant, and the conviction with which he’d smoke this straw man was authentic. It’s like a lifetime of shooting targets and discs was building slowly, hopefully, to a point where he’d whip out the Beretta at the slightest provocation and go fuckin’ loco. That’s what I learned, mainly. Fear me! Fear me, for I deal death to paper and clay.