Lets get away from the pros for a moment and discuss what's going on with our game specifically.
Tonight, as I stood over my ball, eight-iron in hand, with the lights from the driving range post sending my left-handed shadow straight over my ball, I wondered what 'the range' means for the different people there, and what it meant to me as well. Maybe for some a refuge that allowed them to stash their worries about the miserable economy and rising gas prices at the bottom of their bags. For others it could provide a sense of seriousness, in which they tested their abilities; hitting to 100, then 125, then 150 yards. Then of course there are those who spend their time as they would at the church, temple, mosque...They're praying. Praying their ball goes straight. Praying they don't lose their balance. Praying they don't let go of the club after swinging and being the idiot that threw his club into the range.
For me: a test, a safe haven, and a temple all in one. Praying that I can hit my target, I take a sigh of relief (that I am away from sibling rivalry, yelling kids at work, girl drama, money issues) and then view my target and test myself . I hit pretty well tonight to be honest. Good wedges, long irons mostly straight with good distance. Long, controlled drives. However, with one last ball left, I stepped up to my favorite shot: 125 yards away, a slight breeze in my face, middle pin. I was no longer at the range. In my mind, I told myself I was at the Masters about to hit my approach shot onto 18. I was the 'out-of-nowhere' kid, a fairytale story about to win my first Masters. I could hear the commentators in mind. "All Leivenberg needs here is to hit it safe into the middle of the green and he will have secured his win."
I did my normal pre-shot routine. Stood behind the ball for a moment, looking from my ball to my target a few times. I stepped up, spread each foot apart, checking my aim meticulously. I took my final waggle, and then time stopped: It was slow motion. One final look at the pin, then back to my ball. I was ready.
I pulled it. Pure contact, however, definitely right. I may have been on the right most portion of the green, but most likely I am off. What does that mean? Maybe that I can't take the pressure? Maybe that it was just a mishit one night at the range? Maybe that I am blowing one shot out of proportion. For me, and I believe most golfers who believe that they have potential, it was so disappointing that there really feels like there is not cure. No food, TV show, or song would bring me out of this funk.
However, the only hope that I have after that disgusting attempt at winning the Masters is to get back out there and show myself that I CAN...such is golf...such is life.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
3 comments:
The range is definitely a refuge where each stall becomes a solitary pew...often hysterical but generally solemn. Pracicing golfers are so stern and so focused save for those few who come to play around for the first time or who just don't get the difficulty and importance of this highly skilled sport.
I am one of those who is concentraing on getting my swing back so it is especially important for me to focus. But on what? Calculus is easier, said the guy next to me tonight and he couldnt have been more right...I didnt take Calculus for just that reason. But, golf! I will spend my time and my bucks trying to figure it out, to get to the one (and hopefully dozen) great shot that brings me back for more.
Will I find my shot tonight? Very, very doubtful. The amazing thing is that no matter how good a golfer hits the ball on the range or on the course; no matter that he hits a 95 or a 72 or scores a hole in one, he always, always, always comes back for more.
The range, for me, is at the same time both unconditionally forgiving and savagely cruel.
Sure, I can take as many swings as I want, hit as many balls as I've got, without any consequence or damage to a scorecard. There may be other people there, but it's not as if I'm competing against them; it's communal in the sense that we're all engaging in the same thing at the same time in the same place, but solitary in the way that we go about our swings.
The solitude, along with the absence of consequence, is perhaps what lends the range its cruelty of sorts. A bad shot might not resonate as far as my stroke count on the front nine, but it certainly sticks in my mind.
The shots that follow a poor cut are simply variations on a theme of discontent as I attempt to correct the mistake while often repeating exactly what it is that got me in trouble in the first place.
The fact that I'm engaged in my own little world makes climbing out of that hole in my mind tougher, seeing as how I'm so solely engaged in the mistake with nothing to take my mind off of it but my own thoughts (which happen to be mired in that bad shot).
It's not until I finally get a solid swing down that I start to pull myself out of that funk. And then I hit another good shot...then another...then another.
Such is life at the range, as if life anywhere; it's not just about hitting good shots, but also about how you recover from the hooks and slices.
There is nothing better to relieve stress than hitting a bucket of balls. Nothing.
Post a Comment