Getting the Ball Rolling

That corner’s been rounded, that tunnel light spotted.

Spring is officially here.

I took out my golf clubs today.

Better than that, I actually used them and didn’t injure anyone in the process.
My golfing friend (a perfect companion because she’s as raw a beginner as I am, and like me, only learned how to play last year) and I decided to go hit some balls to see if we could at least tell one end of the club from another.

First we got our courage up by going out for breakfast. Any enterprise that begins with food is bound to be a success. After an hour and a half, one order of eggs benedict (I did skip the home fries in favor of fruit), one egg white omelet with dry toast (I like her anyway), and lots of conversation, we were on our way.

There was much debate over which size basket of balls to choose. Would we injure ourselves on the first swing? Would we be driven out of the place by the gales of laughter from the onlookers?

Dragging our golf bags from our cars was also a bit of an undertaking. It’s a mystery how people just airily swing theirs to their shoulder with one practiced toss. Ours took on a life of their own, somehow sprouting straps we didn’t know existed and threatening to spill our clubs all over the parking lot.

Staggering to our spot on the driving range, we set up shop, then had to switch with each other, dragging our bags and ball buckets with us, since she needed a left-hand tee spot. We followed this with several stretching exercises, as we’d been taught in our golfing class, probably the best use of our clubs all morning.

Thankfully, it was a weekday morning and no one else had apparently noticed what a perfect day it was for golf. Our only audience was the facility’s huge slow moving mascot; the dog was exactly the kind of onlooker I was hoping for. He had the demeanor of someone who’s been beaned one too many times and he watched us disinterestedly from his spot in the shade. This was a good thing since my first effort went approximately two and a half feet, while my friend somehow managed to get her ball caught in the scrubby bush that separated our two stations.

As we worked our way through our respective baskets, our swings were erratic, our balls dribbled, hopped, and occasionally even went somewhere, but our conversation never lagged. We covered topics ranging from eBay, summer homes, sketchy relatives, and of course, the never-ending quest for a pair of jeans that actually fit.

Fortunately, we finished just as a couple of men arrived, each apparently capable of taking out a low-flying satellite every time they swung their clubs. We countered by retiring to a nearby bench where we continued with our real strength, sitting and chatting for another forty-five minutes before we left.

The perfect golf outing.