The Long Drive
I've been thinking lately about things I used to do with my dad as a kid.
Today I ended up at the driving range, knocking some golf balls around. I had pulled up just sort of spontaneously while I was out running errands. It was late, close to closing time, but the range was still pretty crowded. I bought a large basket of balls and grabbed an iron and a driver. Next to me were a couple of loud Korean dudes and some middle aged white guy who looked like kind of a dick with very, very expensive looking driving rods.
It had been twelve years or so since I'd swung a golf club, and things didn't go so well. My natural bad tendencies came right back at me, and I found myself chopping down on top of the ball like I was trying to hammer it instead of hit it. I ricocheted a ball right into my ankle, and fouled most of the rest of them right into the grass. I was never very good with a driver, but back in the day I had learned pretty good control with an iron. None of that skill found me today.
I'm not sure what's got me doing these things lately--coming back to childhood things that remind me of pop. I saw him this weekend, on Friday, and it wasn't anything strange or special. We made small talk. We moved my sister's furniture. Mostly he just seemed stressed out, and I tried to make good conversation and play some good music for him (I think he enjoyed both the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and Razorlight).
Even when I was young, I don't remember golf being anything that special. I don't remember him giving me lessons or being encouraging about it. In fact, I'm not sure if my dad was even much of a hitter with a golf club himself. I guess back then it was just something to do.
But swinging a club again felt good. At first my swings were wild and untamed, but gradually I began to recall the grace, poise, and control that make golf so satisfying. I kept readjusting my stance and my grip endlessly. Analyzing each and every swing, nudging myself, bit by bit, movement by movement back towards something honed and exact.
It was only a basket, but I knocked each ball out there with the simple objective of making a long, straight drive again, like I used to do. There's an unspeakable satisfaction in that finish--that long, graceful pause as the ball soars forward from that burst of accuracy and power. That moment, it's just totally yours.
I didn't quite nail it, but I did okay for a 12 year break from the game.
As I was leaving, dusk was quickly fading and the range had cleared out. There was a family there, husband and wife and son, finishing up a basket of balls. The wife was watching her husband, and he was locked in the concentration of each swing. The kid was all on his own just going to town. Swinging away, choppin' at that ball, and just having a grand old time. He couldn't have been happier.
Today I ended up at the driving range, knocking some golf balls around. I had pulled up just sort of spontaneously while I was out running errands. It was late, close to closing time, but the range was still pretty crowded. I bought a large basket of balls and grabbed an iron and a driver. Next to me were a couple of loud Korean dudes and some middle aged white guy who looked like kind of a dick with very, very expensive looking driving rods.
It had been twelve years or so since I'd swung a golf club, and things didn't go so well. My natural bad tendencies came right back at me, and I found myself chopping down on top of the ball like I was trying to hammer it instead of hit it. I ricocheted a ball right into my ankle, and fouled most of the rest of them right into the grass. I was never very good with a driver, but back in the day I had learned pretty good control with an iron. None of that skill found me today.
I'm not sure what's got me doing these things lately--coming back to childhood things that remind me of pop. I saw him this weekend, on Friday, and it wasn't anything strange or special. We made small talk. We moved my sister's furniture. Mostly he just seemed stressed out, and I tried to make good conversation and play some good music for him (I think he enjoyed both the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and Razorlight).
Even when I was young, I don't remember golf being anything that special. I don't remember him giving me lessons or being encouraging about it. In fact, I'm not sure if my dad was even much of a hitter with a golf club himself. I guess back then it was just something to do.
But swinging a club again felt good. At first my swings were wild and untamed, but gradually I began to recall the grace, poise, and control that make golf so satisfying. I kept readjusting my stance and my grip endlessly. Analyzing each and every swing, nudging myself, bit by bit, movement by movement back towards something honed and exact.
It was only a basket, but I knocked each ball out there with the simple objective of making a long, straight drive again, like I used to do. There's an unspeakable satisfaction in that finish--that long, graceful pause as the ball soars forward from that burst of accuracy and power. That moment, it's just totally yours.
I didn't quite nail it, but I did okay for a 12 year break from the game.
As I was leaving, dusk was quickly fading and the range had cleared out. There was a family there, husband and wife and son, finishing up a basket of balls. The wife was watching her husband, and he was locked in the concentration of each swing. The kid was all on his own just going to town. Swinging away, choppin' at that ball, and just having a grand old time. He couldn't have been happier.
posted by Jon at 10:34 PM
0 comments
