A Breakthrough

After a couple of range sessions practicing the teddy bear drill, I was itching to take it to the course. Last Tuesday, Seri had signed us up for one of the first twilight slots at a local course. It was sunny in the mid-60s, an unseasonably warm day for January, and as Seri had predicted. “All the mens will be out.”

I arrived an hour early and hit the range, swinging my teddy bear swing till my left shoulder was sore. I met up with Seri in the pro shop.

Seri is in her late 40s, but looks like she’s in her 30s and dresses like she’s 13. She wore tight black pants and a satin jacket emblazoned with a sparkly logo across the chest. Her knitted cap was puffy and domed like a Rastafarian tam, except it was pastel pink and had a visor. Her gold faux leather golf shoes had a crystal butterfly affixed to the laces.

“What is that?” I asked.

She bent down to pull the butterfly off her shoe lace. “It’s a ball marker,” she said, demonstrating its magnetic quality. “Isn’t it cute?”

At tee time, the starter paired us with two men. I’ll call them Trek and Shrek, since one of them was outfitted in a black and grey pantsuit that reminded me of Spock, and the other was tall, with broad shoulders and a large head.

The starter asked Seri to share a cart with Trek. Shrek and I walked. Among golfers, there are those who walk and those who ride. Walkers are the traditionalists. They believe that a true golfer is supposed to walk the course, hence the saying, “Golf is a good walk spoiled.” Shrek was even more of a traditionalist than me, since he carried his golf bag on his back. I used to do that, too, but that was before “the injury.”

So off we went. My first drive was respectable, but Seri drove about 10 yards farther. I felt a bee sting to the heart, but despite that I said, “Good ball!”

I generally praise other people’s good shots and remain silent on bad shots. In between shots, I like to chat. It lets off steam and lifts the spirit, which can be good for my game. But because Seri and Trek shared a cart, they did most of the chatting, while I walked alone and Shrek walked along the sides of the fairway, looking for lost balls in the deep rough. Seri and Trek even kept score on the same tee card, something I would never do with a stranger.

I was feeling a bit left out of the party that Seri and Trek seemed to be having in their cart. I found myself landing in a lot of bunkers, and on the front nine, I scored a snowman and a lollipop on my card.

Then, on the first hole of the back nine, the unthinkable happened. I whiffed on a drive. “What the --?” I said, looking at the ball on the ground next to the wooden tee.

“Oh no!” Seri said. “You know, when I play with my other golf friends, we usually allow two mulligans per round.”

“Well, I’ll take that as a mulligan,” I said. Under normal circumstances, I would do no such thing. I had already stopped trying to score, and had started to look at this as a practice round. I decided that I didn’t care if Seri was hitting farther than me all the time. I don’t know if it was fatigue, mental or physical, but I suddenly decided to take it easy and just swing slow.

At that moment, something clicked. My drive flew like a rocket. I could barely keep track of it in the distance. I knew it wasn’t an optical illusion because Trek called out, “Atta girl!”

When I got to my ball, I calculated that it had gone 179 yards. I was astounded. I couldn’t wait to hit the next drive. On the next hole, I took the club back slow, like before. It worked again! I drove the ball 183 yards.

After that, all my balls were flying. It felt so effortless, like I was swinging a ribbon in the air. I didn’t feel my fingers on the club. Each time, I had the sensation of letting the weight of the clubhead pull my arms long. There was a brief pause at the top. Then I seemed to make the turn in slow motion and simply let the clubhead fall down into place. I heard a melodic “ping” sound as the sweet spot of the club hit the ball.

On the remaining holes, my balls were landing 10 and even 20 yards past Seri’s. I think everyone was rather surprised.

By the 17^th hole, I was feeling invincible, and I birdied the par 3 by pounding my 7-wood 150 yards to within a few feet of the flag. Even with my mediocre putting skills, I sank the putt in one.

On the last hole, a long par 5, I drove using my slo-mo technique, and my ball looked like it would sail, but its path was rudely interrupted by a “thunk” as it struck a thick tree branch and dropped straight down.

“After a birdie, luck always goes the other way,” said Trek.

But I felt great anyway. I shot a 49 on the back nine, versus 56 on the front, for a total of 105. If I can continue to hit 170 to 180 yards on a drive, that puts me squarely in the average range for amateur women. Never in my life have I wanted so desperately to be average.

But the question remains: Would this miraculous breakthrough hold up? And the answer: Only time will tell.