Last time I had a terrible issue with my 7-iron. So, I hit a jumbo bucket of balls with the dang thing, leaving frustrated and not quite sure how I felt about the whole "golf" thing. But, being the mule-headed gal that I am, I gave it another shot.
Ordering up another jumbo bucket, I set out to make the 7-iron my b*tch. That's right, there's no such thing as surrender when it comes to golf. If something isn't working, you keep doing it until it is. Or maybe that's the definition of insanity and not golf. Or maybe they're the same, seeing as how grown men and women spend hours at a time using sticks to put tiny balls in a hole several hundred yards away. Whichever it is, that's how it's going to be with me. Just keep doing the same thing until you get a different result. And I did.
About half way through the dang bucket, I hit the sweet spot and watched as that sucker flew all the way to the back marker (not the fence, that's just silly, but the one in front of the fence). Not only that, it flew straight. As did the next one and the one after that. You get the picture. So, after a bucket and a half of balls, I had made the 7-iron my b*tch. I could hit it as far or as near as I wanted, adjusting the loft, the speed, the direction. Everything was awesome.... until the last ball. And boy was that a doozy, but not in a good way. Same grip, same swing, same timing, different result. The ball popped a mere ten feet in front of me, but not directly in front, off to the side. And it sat there laughing at me. Mocking. I could hear the club, too, as I put it back in the bag. "Who's the b*tch" now?"
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
The 7-iron
At the driving range, my father said that most people warm up with the 7-iron then move on to something else. So, that's what I did, except I didn't really move on to anything else.
See, the problem with the 7-iron is that it looks like a normal club, but it's not. It's evil. The 7-iron likes to sit in your hand, cradled really, like any other club. It looks like it would hit the ball like any other club, like it would provide a little loft, or maybe distance. No. It won't. Because the 7-iron was wrought from the devil's forge, and there, managed to pick up a little bit of the bad man's soul.
From the top of the swing, it feels fine, through the swing, okay, but at the point of impact? No. Sometimes there is no impact because the club magically shortens or curves or lengthens, causing a rather painful shock when the head hits the ground behind the ball.
Other times, it'll deign to make contact, but maybe it'll just kiss the ball. This makes the ball barely dribble off the mat into the grass. It'll sit there staring at you, accusatory, like you purposely failed it. But it wasn't you, no, it was the 7-iron. And, this little yellow ball sitting a mere four feet from your mat serves a testament to your suckiness. Everyone who walks by, from the just starting tyke with his dad to the seasoned pro, knows what happened. They know that something went terribly wrong with your swing, that your grip was wrong, or your eye left the ball, or your head came up, or your swing was too fast, or that you forgot any of the other myriad of things you have to know to make the ball not sit there and stare at you from a couple feet away.
It would be bad enough if it were just the one ball, but I had a jumbo bucket. JUMBO! So, there they were a couple hundred Easter egg colored balls, laughing at me because I wouldn't relenquish the 7-iron. Wouldn't let it go. Wouldn't move on to something I can actually hit. The 4 maybe? The driver? The 9? No, that whole dang bucket of jumbo balls fell victim to the 7-iron. Their wounded bodies scattered across the outskirts of the battlefield, but never making it into the frey.
ARG! Who plays this game?!
See, the problem with the 7-iron is that it looks like a normal club, but it's not. It's evil. The 7-iron likes to sit in your hand, cradled really, like any other club. It looks like it would hit the ball like any other club, like it would provide a little loft, or maybe distance. No. It won't. Because the 7-iron was wrought from the devil's forge, and there, managed to pick up a little bit of the bad man's soul.
From the top of the swing, it feels fine, through the swing, okay, but at the point of impact? No. Sometimes there is no impact because the club magically shortens or curves or lengthens, causing a rather painful shock when the head hits the ground behind the ball.
Other times, it'll deign to make contact, but maybe it'll just kiss the ball. This makes the ball barely dribble off the mat into the grass. It'll sit there staring at you, accusatory, like you purposely failed it. But it wasn't you, no, it was the 7-iron. And, this little yellow ball sitting a mere four feet from your mat serves a testament to your suckiness. Everyone who walks by, from the just starting tyke with his dad to the seasoned pro, knows what happened. They know that something went terribly wrong with your swing, that your grip was wrong, or your eye left the ball, or your head came up, or your swing was too fast, or that you forgot any of the other myriad of things you have to know to make the ball not sit there and stare at you from a couple feet away.
It would be bad enough if it were just the one ball, but I had a jumbo bucket. JUMBO! So, there they were a couple hundred Easter egg colored balls, laughing at me because I wouldn't relenquish the 7-iron. Wouldn't let it go. Wouldn't move on to something I can actually hit. The 4 maybe? The driver? The 9? No, that whole dang bucket of jumbo balls fell victim to the 7-iron. Their wounded bodies scattered across the outskirts of the battlefield, but never making it into the frey.
ARG! Who plays this game?!
Friday, October 2, 2009
Swing Away
I had been worried that my little heat stroke episode had put my father off of playing golf with me. True, I didn't like that part much, either, but I really would like to play golf. So, now it's October. And, for an early birthday present, my father bought me my very own set of club. He even let me take them out to the driving range. Yay!
Okay, so the good news: I have my own clubs, my dad wants to teach me to play, and he wants to go right then to the driving range.
The bad news: It's over 90 degrees and I'm wearing jeans and a black rayon blouse.
Also, there were some other female troubles going on that I really would rather not talk about.
The point is, that about half way through my jumbo bucket of balls, it's like a flashback to July. Things start to go in and out of focus, my stomach starts cramping so fiercely I can barely stand, and I'm going to throw up. All bad things. Again, I hit the clubhouse up for a spot of floor and air conditioning. Why can't I take the heat? I grew up in Texas, really my body should be used to it by now. I just spent a month working outdoors on a film set. So, a bucket of balls does me in? No way.
I regain my footing, stop the swaying, squint my eyes so I don't need to focus, and whack away at the balls. It's a tough game, golf. My nine iron and my four wood go exactly the same distance in the air. The only difference is the four wood bounces farther. I'm ninety-nine percent sure there's supposed to be a bigger difference than that. The driver, however, rocks. That thing can fly. If I can just get it straight, I may one day be able to stand in a proper tee box. Not there, yet, though.
So, as for my dad, I think he's a little disappointed that I had to lie down every fourth shot. I'm hoping he's also a little proud that I kept going. Probably not, though. Lying down at the driving range is generally frowned upon, and he takes this stuff seriously. And I think he's more than a little upset that I'm not obsessed. I want the game to be fun. I want to progress through a natural process. He'd rather I spend all day and night working on strength and perfecting my swing. I'm kind of remembering why he and I don't share interests, usually. He likes to push until the point of exhaustion, to the point where it's not fun anymore. I like to enjoy something, and get better, working at my own pace. We'll see how that goes. I'm thinking of hitting the range again today.
Okay, so the good news: I have my own clubs, my dad wants to teach me to play, and he wants to go right then to the driving range.
The bad news: It's over 90 degrees and I'm wearing jeans and a black rayon blouse.
Also, there were some other female troubles going on that I really would rather not talk about.
The point is, that about half way through my jumbo bucket of balls, it's like a flashback to July. Things start to go in and out of focus, my stomach starts cramping so fiercely I can barely stand, and I'm going to throw up. All bad things. Again, I hit the clubhouse up for a spot of floor and air conditioning. Why can't I take the heat? I grew up in Texas, really my body should be used to it by now. I just spent a month working outdoors on a film set. So, a bucket of balls does me in? No way.
I regain my footing, stop the swaying, squint my eyes so I don't need to focus, and whack away at the balls. It's a tough game, golf. My nine iron and my four wood go exactly the same distance in the air. The only difference is the four wood bounces farther. I'm ninety-nine percent sure there's supposed to be a bigger difference than that. The driver, however, rocks. That thing can fly. If I can just get it straight, I may one day be able to stand in a proper tee box. Not there, yet, though.
So, as for my dad, I think he's a little disappointed that I had to lie down every fourth shot. I'm hoping he's also a little proud that I kept going. Probably not, though. Lying down at the driving range is generally frowned upon, and he takes this stuff seriously. And I think he's more than a little upset that I'm not obsessed. I want the game to be fun. I want to progress through a natural process. He'd rather I spend all day and night working on strength and perfecting my swing. I'm kind of remembering why he and I don't share interests, usually. He likes to push until the point of exhaustion, to the point where it's not fun anymore. I like to enjoy something, and get better, working at my own pace. We'll see how that goes. I'm thinking of hitting the range again today.
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