Trying to Think About
Not Thinking About It
By Adam Fox
I like to hit golf balls.
I know that sounds simplistic, but I’m not sure there’s really much more to it. I like the fluidity of the club through the air. I like the sound a crisply struck 6-iron makes. I like watching the ball climb into the sky, tracking toward its target (or not), and then the subtle differences in how it falls — left as if it’s dive-bombing the target, or gently off to the right like a high jumper arching his back to just crest the bar.
The routine is important too. I try to find a parking spot near the lights, because car break-ins aren’t unheard of at this range. I try to scope out open bays while I change my shoes in the parking lot. I put my keys and wallet in the same pocket of my golf bag every time and take my headphones out, just in case I need a quick escape from a chatty neighbor hell bent on fixing my swing — though I’d much rather hear the club hit the ball.
Today doesn’t look so bad. It’s overcast and about 45 degrees at 4:30. I probably won’t need the headphones. I set my bag down in a bay on the left side of the range, so that I’m forced to see down range from a draw point of view, and I head to the ball dispenser. They’re all mats at this range, so finding fresh turf isn’t a factor — but not all the mats have the rubber tee, so it’s worth it to get a good one. There’s a college-aged couple sharing a mix-matched set on the right side of the range, celebrating getting the ball in the air. There’s an elderly woman at the ball machine who looks like she needs help with the key pad. I show her how to put the numbers from her receipt into the keypad and get her $4 small bucket, and she heads off to a bay in the middle. I swipe my range club card and press 3 for a large bucket, picking up the stray balls that bounce off and trickle down the sidewalk, trying not to think about the day I’ve had.
As I put my glove on, it catches on my wedding ring, and I’m back in the doctor’s office looking at pictures that 10 minutes ago were the most exciting things we had ever seen, but we are now being told contained some red flags. I remember thumbing Sarah’s ring as I held her hand. She looked so much stronger than I was feeling. We tried to ask all the questions you’re supposed to ask. It’s amazing how few questions I had in that moment and how many questions I had as soon as I left. We talked about future tests and probabilities, and how this didn’t mean anything for certain. I hugged her and said that if anyone in the world was equipped to handle this it was us. I meant her. She’s a special ed teacher, and I had cake for breakfast three days last week.
I like to warm up with a pitching wedge. It makes me feel good that the first thing I see is a quarter sized wear pattern in the middle of the face. Every one had different ways to boost confidence; mine is that wear pattern. A few stretches and a couple soft practice swings. And I’m ready to pull a ball out of the plastic tray and onto the mat to see what kind of swing I brought today. After a few decent shots my mind is starting to drift toward technique. I switch to a 7-iron to get a better idea if some of the distance issues I’ve been fighting are still there. The first ball climbs into the air, turns over with a little fade in the grey of this New Orleans February, and comes down just right of the target that I should be able to carry with this club. Looks like I’m still fighting that slide move that’s been sapping me of distance and causing an early release. A couple of half-hearted slow-motion swings; checking my position at “impact” should fix it, right? After about 10 more shots where I’ve probably made the move I’m looking for in three of them, it’s time to work on the shot that’s been giving me such a headache lately.
I reach for my 4-iron, and I find myself in the elevator at hospital. It’s quiet. We’re both looking straight ahead, not really sure what to say. I’m struck with how different this experience is than any of our other appointments; before they saw anything wrong on the ultrasound, back when our biggest concern was who to tell the good news to and when. When you leave the first OB appointment, everyone at the check-out desk says “congratulations” and they all smile a lot. When you leave the High-Risk Maternity clinic, they all tilt their head to the side as if to say, “Hang in there.” They both leave you reeling with more questions than answers, but the questions are so much different now.
A guy in scrubs is setting up at a bay two down from me. He’s got a jerky, over-the-top move that results in a few good shots mixed in with a lot of mishits — but I’m about to work on hitting a draw with a 4-iron, so he’ll have company soon. I don’t know why a shot that I feel so confident hitting with an 8-iron immediately escapes me when I reach for a longer club, but it’s a shot I need for my home course, so here we are. I think I’ll try my stock cut shot a few times, just to get a few good ones down range before I try to hit that draw.
Two bays down, a guy and his two kids are getting set up. The boy looks to be about 9 and is carrying a set of junior clubs. The little girl is about 5 and desperately wants to be the one to dump the bucket into the little plastic tray on the end of the mat. Dad tries to help, but the balls go everywhere. After a few of us lend a hand chasing down golf balls and keeping the girl from running out onto the range after the last few, father and son set off to see who can hit one into the chipping net set at about 60 yards. Meanwhile, the daughter has a U.S. Kids pitching wedge over by the picnic tables and a better swing than both of them. I’m not sure Dad sees it. His son is impressed with my squirrelly 4-iron shots that aren’t doing at all what I want, and I’m reminded how relative this all is.
It’s after 5 now, and the after-work crowd is starting to show up. My next swing is so twisted up that I decide to change before I start making things worse. I take a quick walk to look for a rubber tee so that I can hit a few drivers. It’s time for a clubface so big I can’t miss it. I can’t find a mat tee, though, so I figure I’ll just hit a few 3-woods off the mat and call it a day. I take the first swing, and it’s just one of those shots. All those swing thoughts I’ve had in my head fall into place just like the clubhead falls into the slot, staying behind my hands and timed up with my turn. The ball comes off like a rocket, starting on line and staying on line. There’s no need to hit another ball. I always like to end on a good shot. I turn to the kid with the high school bag behind me and tell him he can have the bay and the rest of the balls, and I put my bag on my shoulder. As I grab my phone, I see a missed message from my wife. It’s the continuation of a conversation started a few hours ago.
How are you feeling?
Coming back to school helped
so much to clear my mind
That’s good
I was just thinking about how
much better I feel after I got
air hugs from all my kids
I love you
Two kids even passed their
reading test!
Well I ate three donuts
in the target parking lot
I hope that helped
Not really… I’m gonna
go hit some balls
Cool that’ll be nice
I smile as I walk back to my car. That high school kid is just sending those balls I left. No warm-up needed. Must be nice. As I change my shoes in the parking lot again, the sun comes out from behind the clouds for the first time in a few days, and I realize I’m going to be OK. Thank God for her strength and large buckets.
Adam Fox is a new dad to a healthy baby boy trying to keep his handicap. He misses most of his putts in New Orleans, but will occasionally lose a skins game in North Alabama. He is an avid reader of all things golf and hopes to pass that on to his son.
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