Golf Whisperer
Columnist Ted Markle faces a golf intervention.
It was toward the end of a long and humiliating day of golf when I noticed that three quarters of my foursome were discreetly kibitzing. They did this as I whiffed my third attempt to tee off the 17th hole.
It felt like they were talking about me. My antennae went straight up. Sure enough, as we later sat on the clubhouse patio, it was with a mix of self-righteousness and earnestness, that they positioned themselves to address me together. It did not take long before I caught on to the fact that I was the object of an intervention.
To be more specific, a golf intervention. They ran through a litany of proof points on the toxic habits in my game, before my (so-called) buddy Bill asked the pivotal question, “Ted, can you at least acknowledge that you have a problem?” Hoping that this admission would represent half the cure, and get them off my back, I accepted their diagnosis and expressed my desire. “I do acknowledge it Bill. In fact, I would move Heaven and earth to be a better golfer.” With a snarky reference to the mud on my clubs, he exclaimed that the earth part seemed to be well in hand, but that Heaven may indeed be called upon.
Their intervention was drastic and immediate. Bill drove me to a driving range at the edge of town where Steve (aka The Golf Whisperer), silhouetted against the setting sun, was waiting for us. Now, Steve is unlike any golf pro or golf instructor you have even met. Picture in your mind a cross between Bubba Watson and Master Po (from the old Kung Fu series.) At Steve’s prompting, Bill dumped two baskets of golf balls on the grass in front of me. Squinting in the sunlight as he observed my movements, Steve stroked his Fu Manchu and waved his hand in my direction as if to say, “Go about your business.”
An effective golfer’s swing may still be described as unorthodox. Mine, however, is downright deviant. Steve winced as I madly swung my clubs in all directions. “Twisted chakras…” I heard him mumble as each swing caused my shoulders to ache a little more. Each sudden impact with the soil shot clumps of turf in the air and lightning strikes of pain to my elbows. Steve stopped my gyrating, grabbed my chin and looked through me with his white eyes, “I will call you Grass-chopper,” he said. “Quickly, snatch the golf ball from my hand.” I tried to do so and failed. “When you are able to take this golf ball from my hand, it will be time for you to leave,” said the Whisperer. With those words, the pain in my arms and shoulders spread to my lower back, I looked at the two baskets of balls on the grass and wept.
“It is written, he said “man who grips club like hockey stick is destined to play in minor leagues.” He placed a calm hand on my arm and began to instruct me on his 12-step program to rid my game of its demons. Before long, the sun was down, I had chopped at dozens of balls, yet through some mystic-eastern magic, the baskets remained full. I slowly began to incorporate his teachings in my swing and was making progress when I again missed the ball and loudly voiced my frustration.
“Grass-chopper, he said, “you are not nearly good enough a golfer to get angry.” With his words, I concluded that I would have to take this one day at a time.