It's Personal: Golf

My introduction to golf came at a young age. I was 5, I think. Standing in the hideout (a shaded area in the corner of our yard that had a very climbable tree) with neighbors Eric and Kelly. Eric was probably about 10 years older than I. Kelly was my age. Eric enjoyed golf and swung his clubs constantly. On that day he had an iron. And indeed he was swinging away.

Well, I decided to bend down and pick up a stick. Not for any paticular reason, mind you. Just because it was there. What I got was a hole in my dead. Quite literally. I didn't actually feel the impact. But when I put my hand to my head, I felt the warm oozing blood. Off to the emergency room I went for 7 stitches near my temple.

Not the best introduction.

I didn't think much of golf growing up. Apart from the occasional Saturday or Sunday afternoon watching my grandfather's television, I knew very little about golf and its terminology. Eagles and irons and putts and drivers. A mulligan here. A slice there. Chi Chi and some guy names Love. Jack 'Nicholson' as I used to call him. And the Zinger, one of my grandfather's favorite names to say.

There was mini-golf, of course. Windmills and loop-de-loops. Water traps and sand bunkers. I wonder if that place in North Haven with the go-carts and mini-golf is still open...

Then came my time at the Church of the Incarnation in Wethersfield. A monsignor there bought me golf lessons with a real live pro. It was on the Hartford - Wethersfield border, though I couldn't tell you its exact name. And there I went for at least two months to see a short, leather-skinned guy with a good shot and a big personality. I didn't have clubs at the time, so he leant me one. A 5-iron. He told me it was all I needed. And, in fact, I didn't hit with another club the entire time.

He set me in my stance. Taught me the grip. And then taught me the swing. At first, I white-knuckled the club and swung as if for the fences; the ball consistently went about 10 feet. Relax, he told me. Not the easiest advice for me to hear. But eventually, I practiced enough and relaxed myself. Hitting a 5-iron anywhere between 150-170 feet. Or so the guy said. Had no idea if that's a good thing. (And, I ashamedly still don't.)

In the midst of this, my grandfather - the one who watches golf - thought it a good idea to surprise me with money to purchase clubs. And not just any clubs but clubs that were created specifically for me. It just so happens the monsignor knew a family from Scotland who made personalized clubs. So, he brought me to their warehouse. And an older gentleman in that family had me swing the clubs in order to capture the proper dimensions of my swing.

A short time later, I had clubs.

So, the monsignor took me out to play. I put the ball down and took out my driver. I swung like I'd been taught - on a 5-iron - and put the ball somewhere into a body of water in someone's backyard. Or something.

'Have you ever hit with a driver?' the monsignor asked.

'No.'

'What club did you learn with?'

'A 5-iron.'

'Why don't you use the 5-iron?'

'Okay.'

And that's just what I did for 9 holes. I did much better with the 5-iron. But still felt uber-self-conscious.

I didn't play again in the seminary. (Though I went to countless driving ranges with my 5-iron.)

I moved to Seattle in my half-packed Mitsubishi Galant. Didn't bring the clubs.

So, when I went home for my brother's college graduation, I purchased a bag for the clubs so I could ship them back home on the plane.

I did that.

They got here safely.

I've been to the Interbay driving range a few times - a driving range in Seattle. And it felt good.

But you know, I've never been on a course to golf again?

I think that infamous introduction to golf is still in my head. And I have the scar to prove it.