Whistle While You Golf

I showed up a little early for golf class. Having missed the first one due to being at an out-of-state conference, I was ready to see if my golf game had improved since last fall’s class.

Before the evening’s festivities began, the instructor and I both asked how each other was doing. He was rather personal with his next question.

“Kraig, how is your golf game?”

“Well, the bad news is that sand shots are my worst,” I answered. “The good news is that I spend most of my time playing in the woods where there isn’t that much sand,” I continued.

He laughed. I was serious.

Before pulling even one club out of the bag, our golf instructor introduced everyone standing in a semi-circle.

“Joe, Stella, James, Lauren, Graham, Josh, and Kraig. Kraig missed last week’s class,” admitted Ron. Ron was kind. He could’ve added, “Missing a class is actually new to him. Normally, he misses five footers.”

I recognized Lauren from golf classes last summer and fall. We were to be congratulated, I guess, since this class was “Intermediate.” Last time we were pupils together, we shared divots in the “Beginner” class. Lauren had improved and earned the jump in classification. I, on the other hand, was playing church softball on Monday’s beginner night, so that’s why my mulligan and I were at the course on Tuesday with the more proficient putters.

Ron had us grab a pitching wedge and show him our grip. In the process of placing my fingers around the club, I was mentioned by name yet again.

“Kraig, I’d feel better if you would come over here to the end of the line and turn the other way.”

Wut?

Oh yea, now I remembered. Being left-handed, I was always sent packing—similar to a leper being shuttled off to the edge of the colony.

It wasn’t long before we grabbed our bags and hauled hybrids to the driving range. I was giddy. Having gone through just one measly bucket of balls and only playing nine holes so far this summer, I was really interested in seeing what the old swing looked like.

With my stretching complete, the pitching wedge was pulled, golf ball plunked to the ground, a nervous practice swing fulfilled, and then it was show time.

“Swoosh.”

Yes, I said, “swoosh.” My swing cut through the air and for once on the driving range, all was right in my wonderful world of golf. I believe it was one of the sweetest sounds I’ve ever heard on a golf course. Well, maybe second. The first has been echoed by all my playing partners: “Hey, Kraig. I found your drive over here in the woods.”

For the “swoosh” to occur, everything was aligned and performed perfectly: hands on the pitching wedge, head down, feet shoulder-width apart, knees crouched in athletic position, shoulders back. Now with the club raised, back faced target, weight shifted, lower core pulled hands and club around, head stayed down, hands led the club through. Contact was made. The golf ball elevated in the air exactly the way it should’ve.

Eureka.

The class practiced pitching, driving, and accuracy. Then our golf pro hollered, “3-6-9. Grab two golf balls and three tees, and meet me at the putting green.”

3-6-9 is an excellent method for practicing putting. I have to tell myself that every time our golf pro says “3-6-9.” Grabbing a putter, you place it on the green lengthwise at a distance of three feet from the cup, plant a tee, lay the putter down again at roughly six feet, plant another tee, then lay it down once more–this distance approximately nine feet from the hole—and stick your last tee in terra firma. The goal is rather simple: hit two putts in a row from each distance and you’re done. Miss one and you have to go a-l-l t-h-e w-a-y b-a-c-k t-o t-h-e b-e-g-i-n-n-i-n-g.

Ack.

I barely had the chance to start over five times before Ron announced it was time for those who wanted to golf, well, to golf. Everyone said they were headed to tee off. Everyone that is, except James and me. It seems James was taking summer school and didn’t have time to play nine; he did have time to hit half a bucket of range balls before having to go study for a tough math test. After he left, I was all by my lonesome on the driving range. Yea, I know. What a lame excuse James had for not hanging around—studying. When I was in college, I always found studying to be overrated. I drained a bucket of balls, then dragged myself to the car and headed home.

Another Tuesday rolled into town. I left work and headed to yet another golf class.

Once again, after going over important rules of the game of golf, we headed to our home on the driving range. After stretching, our instructor politely invited us to draw either a 7, 8, or 9 iron out of our bags and commence hitting pitch shots a certain distance.

For some reason, I could not seem to get any lift on my golf ball; hitting a screaming line drive between third and short is good if you’re playing baseball. Playing golf and hitting the same screaming line drive fifteen feet while nervously hoping your golf instructor is not watching is bad.

How bad? Bad enough to make your navel pucker.

My head instantly spun around like the doll on “Bride of Chuckie,” searching for the omnipresent golf instructor. Whew—coast was clear. The dude was down range.

“Okay, I have an idea,” I said to the three classmates on my left. “Every time I shank a shot, I’m going to whistle. When you hear me whistle, distract Ron with a question or two so he won’t notice my duff and come talk to me.”

The three amigos giggled.

It didn’t take long for me to perform whistle while you golf.

Ball on tee. Practice swing. Step up to golf ball. So far, so good.

And then it all went to bogey in a Longaberger basket.

I twisted, turned, dropped my left shoulder, lifted my head, and to top it all off—my weight was not shifted properly. Seventy-five percent of me was supposed to be “coming around the bend,” but somewhere between the practice swing and my actual swing, part of me was left behind.

In an effort to make up for the lost pounds, my arms swung wildly, the club entering and exiting the hitting zone before my hands made “contact” with the ball. It dribbled off the tee and came to a peaceful stop five feet in front of me.

“Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to golf I go.”

The tune “Whistle While You Work” was heard, interspersed with giggling from my driving range homies.

No words. No, “Kraig, what I’d like you to try next…” No, “Class, what I’ve noticed some of you doing…”

The silence was golden.

I completed another practice swing and gave it another shot. It was almost a perfect duplication of the previous shot.

“Hey, at least it went straight,” offered my observant instructor Ron as he kept walking.

“Crud, I forgot to whistle!”