Those of us who are now experts at the game of golf, can tell you the most intriguing thing about the game is that you can hit bad shot after bad shot, hole after hole, but it's that one good shot, the one that you stroke just right, that keeps you going. For just that instant instance, everything falls into place, and all seems perfect.
The game of golf began in Scotland. Don't think it merely a coincidence that many years later, I decided to attend Macalester College, a college with proud Scottish traditions. Those who know me well know that I'm nothing if not a golfin' fool. There is after all, a certain female player on the women's side of the PGA, with whose career I have closely monitored over the last few years and wondered what might have been. Indulge me now if you will, back to another day, another time.
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Once upon a time, a much simpler time, a boy could wake up earlier than usual on a Saturday morning, amble out into the streets, and find himself a good parade to watch. There was marching band music forever swirling in the air, with floats filled with smiling local celebrities throwing candy to the onlooking kids, and kings and queens with their screw in a light bulb waves riding in shiny convertibles. These were days when most people didn't know what a FAX machine was, when a PC was something as wacky and as far into the future as the OJ Simpson trial. These were days when people didn't wear high fashion designer sunglasses, but rather, on a sunny day they would place their hand to their forehead in a mock salute, creating their own mini-visor. Those who were too lazy to do even that would do the next best thing, they would squint.
It was a gentler time when a boy could be smitten with a girl, creating a wave of creativity never again matched. So smitten was this certain boy, that he was equally as miserable as he was happy. He felt sublimely, infinitely inspired. But as is so often the case in these mini Romeo and Juliet sagas, the romance never quite blossomed the way the boy would have liked. And to add to the confusion, the boy soon also became infatuated with the young lass' sister. So for the one and only time in his young life, the boy now was interested in two members of the same household.
The two sisters were of a different variety. The older was serious, an excellent student with a quiet determination that impressed the boy. She was musical, graceful and possessed all the traits poets throughout the years have written about. The younger was more cynical, spunky and athletic. She teased the boy's sense of humor, chiding his silliness while at the same time encouraging it. The only common connection the boy felt for the two sisters was the inescapable feeling that through all the other faces and souls he encountered on a daily basis, somehow these two knew him without him having to verbalize his thoughts and feelings. There existed a certain fizz between them.
There really isn't much more to the story between the boy and the two sisters. They went their separate ways and the only thing that remained were a few motivated memories of the times, a lingering feeling of remembering how he once used to feel, plus an occasional news clipping about the younger sister who sort of established herself as a competitor on the women's professional golf circuit.
There were many, many years in between, but meanwhile, the boy found another who somehow ties into the mixture of the fizz. Her encouragement and humor take him back while at the same time pushing him gently ahead to accomplish all that is left to accomplish. Like the two sisters, she speaks his language, and best of all, understands it. After a shared golfing outing last week, he as always, thanked his lucky stars for her continuing friendship. Together they moved forward striving for a common goal. At times one of them would land in a trap, in the wilderness, but somehow they always managed to find their way back on to the course. The flags might have marked a final destination, but there was still much, much more ahead. Inspired, infinitely inspired.
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