Tee 20 at Pine Ridge.
With the weather pushing 90F for the second day in a row, I decided to take out my anxieties by crushing little yellow golf balls 300 yards at a time.
Okay, maybe not 300 yards, but I did hit one about 230 yards - nice.
75 balls for $12.50. That's about one round of golf for a very good golfer (not me). For today's outing, I assembled a small quiver of clubs: Pitching wedge, 8 iron, 6 iron, 5 iron, 5 wood, 3 wood, a putter (that I didn't use) and my old and trusty TiBubble2 driver.
When I was younger, all I wanted to do was crush the ball. Hit that sucker as far as it would go and I would be A Man. But there's more to it than that. Finesse. Maybe I don't need to swing as hard or hold the club as aggressively. Maybe I should relax, swing and nail it.
When using the driver, fewer sounds are as pleasing as that metallic "clink" as the driver connects with the ball, sending it screaming off into the distance. Hear that "clink" and all is good. Hear anything else and it's just gone pear-shaped.
75 balls in the hot sun. It was cathartic. At least it was cathartic so long as I heard the lovely "clinks", otherwise it started to become maddening. A "whook" meant that the ball would shoot off to the left. A "clunk" meant it was jumping up high, going nowhere. A "slap" and the ball sliced off to the right. Was there a difference in performance between the shiny range balls and the scruffy looking ones? I'm convinced there was a difference and that the scruffy balls were conspiring against me.
Last year, we starting walking - executive courses, please. This year, I intend to continue that trend - just say "yes" to executive courses.
But until that actually happens, I'll bide my time on the driving range where the upside is that I can be done in an hour. The downside is that you can't smoke your cigar on the driving range.
Maybe it's time to rent a cart...
