2023 begins!

 Still cold in Vermont. A bunch of snow still in my backyard. Mounds of it in the corners of our parking area. Golf is still a ways away. 

Today, though, for about two hours, it was glorious. after a very chilly and damp morning it gave way to sunny skies and temperatures, miraculously, in the low 70s. (I should add that now, as I type this, it's cold and rainy again, and there was thunder and lightning a couple hours ago. Vermont. If you don't like the weather, wait five minutes.) 

Earlier, though, my buddy Phil and I, once it penetrated our brains that it had suddenly turned lovely out, pulled out the chairs from the basement and sat outside, letting the isolation, cold and claustrophobia of winter moult off us, savoring the gentle air. Before long, as it will on a gentle sunny day, my mind turned to golf, and I decided the weather demanded that I grab a golf club and try to hit a ball into the woods behind by back yard. 

As a note of backstory, and to fill readers in on what's been on my golf mind the past few months, I didn't play very much last season. The previous year had ended with some frustration, and I just was feeling like I wasn't playing well enough to justify spending all the money on rounds, and the damn ball wasn't going where I wanted it to go in general. Early last season I played a few times, and had less fun than I wanted; my technique just wasn't getting the job done, and I didn't know how to correct it. 

Then I started hanging out with another friend, Bud Barn Steve, who's an experienced and very good golfer, way better than I.  Hits it a country mile. Like me, he enjoys hitting the range, so we went and practiced a few times and played a couple rounds towards the end of last summer. One of the last times we played, I think it was at the range, he asked politely, because he's that kind of polite dude, if he might offer an observation or two about my swing. Please, please do, I pleaded, as I watched another 6-iron shot slice gracefully into the forest.  

"Shoulders, dude," he said, "Your shoulders are frozen, which is why you can't keep your left arm straight, or get any power on your swing." Try pulling that right shoulder back on the backswing, then pull that left shoulder back after impact so you follow through all the way, he advised. Drive that right shoulder through the swing. And keep your damn left arm straight on the damn backswing. 

So I tried that, and the damn ball flew a damn country mile. It was like flipping a light switch. I tried another shot, another country mile. And right there, in that instant, my whole outlook on the game changed. I had it. I could do it. I could hit that ball and make it go straight and long. I knew how. I had unlocked something that had eluded me since coming back to the game a few years ago. I took a few more shots, not getting it every time, but I could almost repeat the shot and feeling; it was close, I could taste it. 

I think we played a round after that, and of course I couldn't consistently find that groove, but it was there, I could tell. Then the leaves fell, followed closely by the snow, lots and lots of snow. I watched a bit of golf, and I thought a lot about my shoulders and my swing, and frequently took out a club and practiced a super slow swing in the living room, turning the shoulders back then letting them uncoil and end facing left, shoulders squared. At the same time over the winter I started ice skating, walking over to the wonderful Withington Skating Facility in the park a quarter mile away three times a week. My legs became iron. My back firmed up, my balance improved, and my heart and lungs absolutely loved it. At home I also started fooling around with a couple 12-pound dumbbells I picked up at the thrift store. Twelve pounds isn't that many pounds, but hoist those babies 20 times and you know you've done something. So my upper and lower body got very strong indeed over the winter, and right now I'm in better shape than I've been in years. (I even looked for a couple golf-specific routines you can do with the dumbbells - that's a thing)  My arms are strong, my legs and back are strong, the core's getting there, and it feels great. 

So that brings us to today, sipping coffee with Phil on my little patio. Phil's not a golfer, by the way, but despite that personal failing and character flaw he's a pretty cool guy. Together we play in a rock'n'roll band called Rocket 69. Occasionally I bore him to tears talking about golf, so today I grabbed my 6-iron and a couple of practice balls kidnapped from the range, and put one on the ground. Looked at it, thought about my shoulders and my left arm. Said, "Hello, ball." Gripped my club. Waggled.

Stepped back for a moment, looked at the forest, my target. Turned to Phil, said, "Whaddya think, I'm gonna hit that tree." It was a large maple, maybe 30 yards away from where I stood pointing at it with my club, Sultan-of-Swat-like. Not far, obviously, but still ridiculous, of course, I'm not gonna hit that tree, that's just silly. So I address the ball again, re-waggle, without grooving it, think of my left arm, take an breathtakingly beautiful backswing, keep my eye on the ball, and let my shoulders move as powerfully as I can through their arc and journey to follow-through. Sound at impact was Woodsesque. The ball shot like a laser off the club and rocketed straight, like an arrow, impacting that very goldurned tree just right of center with a smack that startled the birds and blew my mind. 

"DID YOU FUCKING SEE THAT!!!!" I exclaimed, with some enthusiasm in my voice. "You witnessed that, right? You saw that, right? DAMN!" He had. Thank God. 

I was in shock. The shot was perfect. I think were it not for the forest in the way that ball would have gone 180 yards. Stupid trees. (Longtime readers will remember my strong feelings about trees.) I just couldn't believe I had hit the tree I wanted to hit. So, not wishing to tire my laurels by resting on them, I placed another golf ball on the ground. "Here we go, Ima hit it again!" Took another beautiful backswing, left arm straight, head down, dumbbell-powerful shoulders sweeping, weight naturally shifting in reaction to the shoulders, hips swiveling perfectly, swinging through the ball, and it took off again like a Rocket 69. This one missed Target Tree by about 5 feet to the right, sizzling past it to impact on another tree a few yards further on. Poor ball hit that second tree hard and took a bounce that sent it high, high in the air, where it bumped the bottom of a Finnair jet bound for Helsinki and plummeted back to Brattleboro to land about 10 feet away from me, plopping into the snow. This shot was perhaps even more perfect (imagine that, more than perfect!) than the first shot. 

I said, "Well, that was a very good start to my season." And again, just to prove to myself that it wasn't a fluke, I went into my golf bag and got an actual used game ball, put it on the ground and took aim at another innocent tree, this one a little further away. Comfortably repeated the swing, and the ball flew in a beautiful parabola into the forest, not hitting the tree but close enough to frighten it. And close enough that if it were on the course it would've been straight down the fairway and I'd be putting it on the green or wherever I wanted it. It was wonderful golf. And I did think of Kipling, hitting his red golf balls off the hill into the snow at Naulakha. Phil was impressed by my stunning achievement, but as a civilian didn't really feel the golfgasm that I was having right in front of him. 

Who knows, this being Vermont, when the courses will open, but it'll be in just a few weeks for sure, and that's great. I hope I can bring the shots at my poor trees with me to the golf course this year; it could really change my outlook on the game. I can't wait. 

Hit 'em straight!