In youth we learn; in age we understand.
~Marie Ebner-Eschenbach
"Do you think I should wait or go ahead and hit?" I asked my friend Mike.
"I don't know," Mike said. "He's pretty close."
"Yeah," I answered. "But he's on the left side of the fairway. I never hit it left."
Just ten years old, my golf skills were still in their embryonic stages -- as was my knowledge of etiquette. My drives all tended to drift weakly high and right. My occasional well-struck tee shot would start straight, but then always fade to the right edge of the fairway.
Low and left? Never.
So as those last heedless words left my lips, I started my backswing. A brief turn of the hips, a subtle rotation of the shoulders, and the ball rocketed off the clubface -- low and left.
Rarely in life are we afforded the divine power of foretelling the future, seeing events unfold before they occur. Like maybe when the car ahead on the freeway abruptly stops, and no amount of brake pressure would have avoided the impending collision.
So as my small, white missile streaked down the left side of the fairway, I saw the future for an instant. I no longer hoped the ball wouldn't hit the fellow golfer in front of me -- that was a foregone conclusion. No, instead, I hoped it would merely hit him in the thigh, the butt, or at least the upper arm, someplace fleshy with some padding. Just, please, not directly on bone, I thought. And not on the head.
I would like to believe I heartily yelled "Fore!" But, in reality, I barely mustered a weak and reluctant "Hey." Mike heard me, but the fellow 170 yards down the fairway certainly did not.
Maybe if I just closed my eyes and prayed, I could pretend this never happened, that I never hit a golf ball with this man -- possibly a husband, a father, a favorite son -- just down the fairway.
But no such luck. The ball continued the seemingly eternal flight toward its human destination. Now just yards away, I realized that my Pinnacle was on a beeline toward the center of the man's back, as if his shoulder blades were goalposts for a descending football.
In a matter of milliseconds, my mind feverishly raced through dozens of potential outcomes, each more horrid and life altering than the former: broken bones, newspaper headlines, prison time, a funeral. What will Dad say? Will I be banned from the course? Will I ever play again? Do juvenile detention centers have golf courses?
Then, with a dull and horrid thump, the ball struck right in the middle of his back. Dead center. The lump in my throat grew two-fold. Though I tried to swallow, every ounce of moisture in my mouth relocated to the palms of my hands. I simply thought, "I'm screwed."
The man's stride halted mid-step. He never fell down. He never slumped over. He hardly even flinched. As if superhuman, some sort of mythical golfing god, he slowly turned around with his head slightly tilted toward his right shoulder. He stared at me with eyes that seemed to judge my entire brief life.
I wanted to run. I wanted to point at Mike. He's the one who hit you! I wanted to take some practice swings and nonchalantly act as if nothing happened, as if I were simply warming up for my drive, that the reckless offender must have been playing from some other hole.
But, instead, I waved. "Sorry about that," I sheepishly hollered, waiting for the man to bolt into a sprint back up the hill.
But the brute never said a word. He just continued to stare.
"Is he OK?" Mike asked. "That had to hurt."
"I think so. What should I do?"
"I don't know," Mike said, turning toward his golf bag, as if washing his hands of any guilt by association.
"Sorry," I yelled again, hoping a second apology would render the matter resolved.
We waited a few more seconds, still expecting him to charge back up the fairway, crazily waving a pitching wedge in his hand. You stupid kids! What do you think you are doing! But, stunningly, he turned back around and began a slow gait toward the green, leaving my ball lying in the sparsely mown rough behind him. In silence, I lowered my head and stared at the ground.
The man hadn't shouted. He hadn't thrown my ball into the woods. He hadn't offered any animated hand gestures. And after his round he didn't report my actions to the pro shop. He just walked away and continued his round, leaving me to wallow in my guilt and idiocy.
Twenty years later, I have no idea why that man walked away. Maybe he just dismissed me as a stupid kid, a ten-year-old not worth wasting his time on. Or perhaps the ball just hadn't hurt that much. Although I can't imagine how a line-drive tee shot from 170 yards wouldn't bring pain. Whatever the reason, I learned a fundamental rule of golf etiquette that day: don't dare hit into the group ahead.
And, on the rare occasion when someone hits into me, I don't yell or throw a fit. I simply stare.
~Marie Ebner-Eschenbach
"Do you think I should wait or go ahead and hit?" I asked my friend Mike.
"I don't know," Mike said. "He's pretty close."
"Yeah," I answered. "But he's on the left side of the fairway. I never hit it left."
Just ten years old, my golf skills were still in their embryonic stages -- as was my knowledge of etiquette. My drives all tended to drift weakly high and right. My occasional well-struck tee shot would start straight, but then always fade to the right edge of the fairway.
Low and left? Never.
So as those last heedless words left my lips, I started my backswing. A brief turn of the hips, a subtle rotation of the shoulders, and the ball rocketed off the clubface -- low and left.
Rarely in life are we afforded the divine power of foretelling the future, seeing events unfold before they occur. Like maybe when the car ahead on the freeway abruptly stops, and no amount of brake pressure would have avoided the impending collision.
So as my small, white missile streaked down the left side of the fairway, I saw the future for an instant. I no longer hoped the ball wouldn't hit the fellow golfer in front of me -- that was a foregone conclusion. No, instead, I hoped it would merely hit him in the thigh, the butt, or at least the upper arm, someplace fleshy with some padding. Just, please, not directly on bone, I thought. And not on the head.
I would like to believe I heartily yelled "Fore!" But, in reality, I barely mustered a weak and reluctant "Hey." Mike heard me, but the fellow 170 yards down the fairway certainly did not.
Maybe if I just closed my eyes and prayed, I could pretend this never happened, that I never hit a golf ball with this man -- possibly a husband, a father, a favorite son -- just down the fairway.
But no such luck. The ball continued the seemingly eternal flight toward its human destination. Now just yards away, I realized that my Pinnacle was on a beeline toward the center of the man's back, as if his shoulder blades were goalposts for a descending football.
In a matter of milliseconds, my mind feverishly raced through dozens of potential outcomes, each more horrid and life altering than the former: broken bones, newspaper headlines, prison time, a funeral. What will Dad say? Will I be banned from the course? Will I ever play again? Do juvenile detention centers have golf courses?
Then, with a dull and horrid thump, the ball struck right in the middle of his back. Dead center. The lump in my throat grew two-fold. Though I tried to swallow, every ounce of moisture in my mouth relocated to the palms of my hands. I simply thought, "I'm screwed."
The man's stride halted mid-step. He never fell down. He never slumped over. He hardly even flinched. As if superhuman, some sort of mythical golfing god, he slowly turned around with his head slightly tilted toward his right shoulder. He stared at me with eyes that seemed to judge my entire brief life.
I wanted to run. I wanted to point at Mike. He's the one who hit you! I wanted to take some practice swings and nonchalantly act as if nothing happened, as if I were simply warming up for my drive, that the reckless offender must have been playing from some other hole.
But, instead, I waved. "Sorry about that," I sheepishly hollered, waiting for the man to bolt into a sprint back up the hill.
But the brute never said a word. He just continued to stare.
"Is he OK?" Mike asked. "That had to hurt."
"I think so. What should I do?"
"I don't know," Mike said, turning toward his golf bag, as if washing his hands of any guilt by association.
"Sorry," I yelled again, hoping a second apology would render the matter resolved.
We waited a few more seconds, still expecting him to charge back up the fairway, crazily waving a pitching wedge in his hand. You stupid kids! What do you think you are doing! But, stunningly, he turned back around and began a slow gait toward the green, leaving my ball lying in the sparsely mown rough behind him. In silence, I lowered my head and stared at the ground.
The man hadn't shouted. He hadn't thrown my ball into the woods. He hadn't offered any animated hand gestures. And after his round he didn't report my actions to the pro shop. He just walked away and continued his round, leaving me to wallow in my guilt and idiocy.
Twenty years later, I have no idea why that man walked away. Maybe he just dismissed me as a stupid kid, a ten-year-old not worth wasting his time on. Or perhaps the ball just hadn't hurt that much. Although I can't imagine how a line-drive tee shot from 170 yards wouldn't bring pain. Whatever the reason, I learned a fundamental rule of golf etiquette that day: don't dare hit into the group ahead.
And, on the rare occasion when someone hits into me, I don't yell or throw a fit. I simply stare.
http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/09/Low-and-Left.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru
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