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.