By Ronald N. Guy Jr.
It was a fabulously atypical mid-week spring day. At first, there was nothing overtly out of
the ordinary. The weather forecast was,
as expected, sunny and seasonably warm.
The day’s first sound, familiarly rude and abrupt, gave no indication
that this dawn would produce a day drastically different from its yesterday or
tomorrow. This day’s delightful weather
wouldn’t be wasted behind a desk though, and the abrupt morning sound – a
dutiful alarm clock – woke its master not for another day of work but for a
round of golf.
A “best ball” or “captain’s choice” tournament was on the
agenda. This popular format allows a
foursome to select the best shot after each rotation with all players hitting
their next shots from that location.
For him, “hack golfer” (antonym for scratch golfer) that he is, it’s a
beautiful thing. No matter how
disastrous the first three shots are, if the fourth guy drills it down the
middle, everyone essentially drilled it down the middle. It’s socialism we can all agree on.
With good friends in the foursome in front of his, a
pride-based wager was negotiated between the groups and relentless,
good-natured heckling ensued. About
halfway through the round, his team had spread about three holes worth of
competent play over nine holes. It was
epically bad. Facing a short par 3 with
a wickedly tiered green, water in front and to the right and thick foliage to
the left and off the back of the green, the “fantastic” four wasn’t teeing off
with any confidence. To make matters
worse, the following hole’s tee was just off the green, thereby giving their
heckling buddies a front row and within-ear-shot seat to the inevitable
carnage.
The first three shots to the green were literally right into
the drink (take 1), painfully short and barely dry on the embankment in front
of the green (take 2) and left into the woods (take 3). Their boys, lubed up on the over-21 sauce
and waiting to tee off on the next hole, were lobbing increasingly obnoxious verbal
barbs with each successive sacrifice of an innocent golf ball. He had one more swing to pull his foursome
from the burning building.
Nothing in his golfing history and certainly nothing from
this day would have led even a degenerate gambler from putting a nickel on his
shot coming up aces. It was a healthy
9-iron to the green. The way he had
been striking the ball, he considered a compensatory 8-iron. As he drew his sword from his golf bag, he
figured screw it, act like a golfer and assume you’re going to hit it flush…he
grabbed the 9-iron. With a boisterous
audience quieting ever so briefly as he swung, he hit it square. The ball launched on a majestic trajectory
and was dead-on the pin. One thought
crossed his mind: be right. After a soft
landing, a bounce and a gentle roll, the ball stopped…less than two feet from
the pin. His foursome erupted and his
jeering buddies standing greenside quietly tipped their caps.
The shot was, most assuredly, a fleeting flirtation with
golfing brilliance. Nevertheless, as
the perfect tonic for another frustrating round littered with errant shots, it
was a moment that reaffirmed his connection with a mercurial game and ensured
his rapid return to the links to chase the next lasting memory.
His on again, off again relationship with golf needed this
moment. Truth is, we all need these
rejuvenating moments, whether we play golf or not. Personal relationships need breaks from daily routines to
cultivate new, binding experiences.
Workplaces should pause to recognize and celebrate individual and team
accomplishments. Marriages need the
occasional quiet, child-less dinner when a wife, through a rare carefree smile
from across the table, unknowingly reminds her husband that he married the most
beautiful women in the world.
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