Standing over a golf ball I sometimes feel like Alan Shepard strapped to an Atlas rocket pinned down in a plaster-molded seat, engineers ringing through my brain walking me through the checklist before 860,000 pounds of thrust sends me into the cosmos. 'Feet square to target' - check. 'Club face square to target' - check. 'Ball position even between feet' - check. 'Hands in relaxed position' - check.
Let's light this candle!
The backswing starts and in about one-and-a-half seconds I've contorted into a wickedly crippled pose. My feet and head locked square to the target. Everything else is torqued, spring-loaded facing behind me. My arms are overhead, one at a steep right angle and the other stiff straight. It's a pose no human was ever meant to be in. Man's survival never called for this!
Now let's send this ball of rubber to the goddamn moon!
The downswing is a controlled flash of lightning. Hips, shoulders, chest, and arms unwind in sync. Hours of practice, the checklist, the crippled pose - that damn crippled pose! - crash into the ball like God's fist for 1/200 of a second.
The rockets ignite, launching the ball from its gantry. The engineers return. 'Trajectory looks good. 'Ball speed is good.'
But wait! No! The ball is...turning left! It's heading...toward those trees! It's not stopping!
'We've got a bit of a problem here.'
No shit we've got a problem! But this candle is lit. I'm whizzing into the jungle at Mach 5! I’ll be sitting three from two hundred and twenty yards back.
Call the wife. I’m dead.
At the crash site the engineers come back one final time for the investigation. 'What could have gone wrong here? Feet were square. Club face was square. Ball position was even between feet. Arms were relaxed. The grip was....'
The damn grip! We forgot to check the grip! How did the grip not make it to the checklist? It needs to be neutral not strong! A strong grip turns the club face too quickly, closing it, sending the ball left - into these trees!
My hands - not the hours of practice, not the crippled pose - that damn crippled pose! - not the flash of lighting - it was my hands. This little piggy was a smidge - no, a gnat's eyelash - too far right and sent this little ball of rubber left into these trees.
The rocket was set to blow before we ever lit it. And now I’m sitting three from two hundred and twenty yards back. Standing over the ball the engineers come back. ‘Feet square to target' - check. 'Club face square to target' - check. 'Ball position even between feet' - check. 'Hands in relaxed position' - check. ‘Grip neutral’ - check.
Let’s light this candle!