I’ve never been what you’d call a “good” golfer. I’m not even mediocre. I’m lucky if I can hit 75. On the front nine. But my dad always tried to teach me, and I just couldn’t catch it. Sure, occasionally I’d hit a real nice drive and actually put it on the fairway. I’ve even chipped into the cup from ten or fifteen yards before. I’ve made some grand putts and chipped out of the sand a few times. But for the most part, I suck royally.
Aaron and I played a round of eighteen last summer and I think it took us somewhere around eight hours to finally finish the game. We had let several teams play through us at various points in the day too. We couldn’t hit that ball straight to save our lives. We sure drank a lot of beer though. Perhaps one is the cause of the other…
Anyway, my dad was always a good golfer. He’d hit par, or right below on most games. I was impressed with his abilities. He used to take me to the driving range all the time when I was growing up. Well, one time when I was about fifteen, I guess, we were hitting balls at the range, when the oddest thing happened. We both swung at the same time, and stood and watched as our golf balls made a silent swoop towards each other. And like something out of a science fiction movie, they clicked. I was floored.
Of course when asked, we are sure to let you know that we meant to do that, and that it actually happens all the time. That’s what we trained for. I have a pretty harsh hook, and his slice can be pretty severe too. But when we play them off each other, it corrects our shots. I know that doesn’t happen too often. I wonder what the odds really are, and how often it has happened before. I don’t know, but I’m glad that out of all of my days of bad golfing with my father, this happened to us.