A Lesson Learned by Bob Johnson

A couple of months ago I decided to give up my bowling career. The season was long, and league games at night started to cut into my sleeping hours. The question now was what could I do with a custom drilled urethane covered red, white and blue striped bowling ball, a matching bag, and size 10 matching shoes. I looked pretty sharp on the lanes. My game wasn’t.

I took the plunge and drove down to Sparky’s Pawn. He must have seen me coming because he had all kinds of excuses on why my offering was really an unsaleable item for them. I pondered my next move and Eureka! the answer was standing in a corner of the shop all by itself. I put on my best horse-trading look and brought a relatively loaded golf bag to the counter.

“How about an even trade?” I asked Porky the proprietor’s son.

“He gave my trade-in the once over, saw what I had grabbed and said I would have to chip in an extra five bucks to seal the deal.

I walked out of there with visions of a brand new retirement sport career. I came home and proudly displayed my new purchase to my wife. 

“Look honey, and I got them cheap.” I exclaimed.

“She stared at my marketing coup and said, yes they do look cheap.”

I was a bit disappointed she didn’t share my enthusiasm of the tools to start a new chapter in my life.

I took my equipment out into the garage and inspected each item.

The bag was a little torn in a few places but duct tape fixed it right up. There were some zippered pockets, one with the bottom missing, some clips for some gadget, and a strap for the bag. The strap was a different color than the bag but I figured that was the way it was supposed to be.

I took out the sticks. There was seven of them. Each had a number on the end. I looked them over. One had a three stamped in the end. It looked like it was made out of wood. Three of them had a number seven engraved into the end. One had a number nine on it, and two didn’t have anything at all stamped anywhere. They were a different shape and looked like paddles. I was set.

My wife said I should take lessons first. Now I probably could have conquered the game of golf easily but I decided to humor the old gal. 

I contacted a woman named Kelly Donahue. She was highly recommended by the service counter boys at a nearby golf course. I made arrangements and got ready for a new adventure.

We met at a large meeting room in the new fire station down the road. There were twelve of us.

Kelly instructed me to bring a seven iron and a yoga mat. I assumed an iron was one of those with a seven on it. They were all different. All of those in the bag were stamped with a different name. There was Callaway, Wilson, Taylor Made, Bridgestone, Titleist, and so on. I grabbed the seven with Walmart stamped on it. Couldn’t go wrong with that one!

We introduced ourselves and got right down to business. The yoga mat was spread out and we went through various contortions. She said it was important to loosen up before we started. 

Hell, loosening up before I went bowling was a pitcher of beer. What had I gotten into?

We stood up, did more dips and stretches and then it was time for the good stuff. 

“Grab your seven, and interlock your little finger on your right hand with your first finger on your left hand and hold loosely. Don’t grip too hard.” She ordered.

She walked around and adjusted people’s hands. She came to me. And stared.

“You haven‘t had lessons before have you, Bob?’ she questioned.

“No, I said, but I’m excited to be here. Why, am I grabbing the stick wrong?”

I thought I saw her slightly roll her eyes.

“First of all these are called clubs, not sticks.” she said and spread her arms out to the expanse of the other students, and second of all you need to see how the others club grip look.”

I quickly turned the instrument upside down so the heavy part was on the floor. 

We took gentle swings back and forth and I listened intently to all instructions. After all this was costing me money and I wanted to get things right.

One half hour later we were ready to set up for a real swing at an imaginary ball. I set my stance as instructed, stuck out my butt, bent my knees slightly, adjusted my hand grip and started my back swing keeping my left arm straight. 

Kelly grabbed my upper torso prodding me to keep twisting back to the right all the while looking down at where the ball would be laying.

“Okay now Bob, nice and easy swing forward keeping that arm straight.” She commanded.

I didn’t move.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“My back went into spasms, I can’t move, I said as I winced, and it won’t unwind.”

It took some time to get loosened up again but I didn’t try that exercise again.

“Now, I want you all to get an actual round of golf in before our next class.” She said and waved goodbye.

I played eighteen holes of golf two days later.

The garbage men just took away those weapons of mass destruction this morning.

I’m thinking about buying a corn hole set. Now I am of a certain age that corn hole meant something different than throwing beanbags into a hole in a board.

But I don’t have to take any lessons to play that game.