the heck can a parent do with a child like that?”
He allowed another brief smirk. “Given how short we are on time,” he said, looking down at his watch for the third time in as many minutes, “I’m not going to beat around the bush with you. Our golf lesson today is intended to give you my personal opinion about ‘what the heck a parent can do with a child like that.’ ”
“Wow,” I said skeptically as we neared the tee box for the second hole. “You honestly believe golf can help deal with delinquent children?” As soon as I’d said it I realized what a dumb question that was. Of course he thought golf could help with such matters. To London Witte, golf was the answer to everything. “Maybe you’re in the wrong profession. You should hang a shingle above your door and market yourself as a Golf Psychologist.”
London ignored me. He pulled a long club from his bag, teed up a ball, and, as usual, smacked one straight down the middle of the fairway
“Every stinkin’ time,” I mumbled as I watched his ball roll to a stop several hundred yards away. Then I stepped up and hit my own ball. When it first came off the tee I thought momentarily that it was going straight. But like so many times before, after a hundred yards or so it started curling to the right, and before I could say “triple-bogey” it was lost in the forest along the western edge of the fairway. I heard it bounce several times on tree limbs and trunks as it descended.
“Every stinkin’ time,” my father ribbed.
We walked together down the right edge of the grass until we reached the spot where we believed my ball had crossed the tree line. Then we dropped our bags and headed off through the brush to find it. After five minutes of wandering around I finally spotted the thing thirty yards in, lying on the ground between several small saplings. Even if I’d had a clear view of the fairway and some room to swing I couldn’t have hit the ball from there, because course rules forbid playing from out of bounds. So I picked it up, added a stroke to my score, and went back to the edge of the fairway to hit it again.
My second shot was much straighter than my first, but a little too powerful for such a tight space and not quite in the right direction. It bounced a couple of times on the far side of the fairway, and then plunked into the line of trees opposite where I stood. “Dang it!” I snapped in frustration. After several minutes looking for it (again) I wanted to give up, telling London I’d just grab another ball from my bag so we could get going. He assured me that we would find the ball soon enough. Two groups of golfers played through before we finally discovered it tucked beneath the bushy arms of a sword fern.
My third stroke was decent—not great, but at least it stayed in bounds—and my fourth landed on the green. A couple of putts later I was done. I tended the flagstick for my father, whose three strokes earned him a birdie. He checked his watch again as soon as the ball dropped into the cup. “Okay,” he said as he peeled the golf glove off his left hand and tucked it in his back pocket. “I told you in advance what the topic of the lesson was. Now you tell me what you learned as we head back to the clubhouse.”
As we began walking, I mentally retraced our steps along the second hole, from my first lost ball until my final stroke dropped in the cup. With a little imagination, an idea started to form in my head. “How about this? Although I know that golf is not life, if I were to acknowledge that they shared some generic similarities, then, based on the way I just played that hole, one could probably make the argument that, in life, not everyone is going to knock the ball straight down the fairway every time. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
“Of course.” He grinned. “Anything else?”
“I guess I could infer that I should expect my child to slice or hook from time to time, but if I’ve taught him
He allowed another brief smirk. “Given how short we are on time,” he said, looking down at his watch for the third time in as many minutes, “I’m not going to beat around the bush with you. Our golf lesson today is intended to give you my personal opinion about ‘what the heck a parent can do with a child like that.’ ”
“Wow,” I said skeptically as we neared the tee box for the second hole. “You honestly believe golf can help deal with delinquent children?” As soon as I’d said it I realized what a dumb question that was. Of course he thought golf could help with such matters. To London Witte, golf was the answer to everything. “Maybe you’re in the wrong profession. You should hang a shingle above your door and market yourself as a Golf Psychologist.”
London ignored me. He pulled a long club from his bag, teed up a ball, and, as usual, smacked one straight down the middle of the fairway
“Every stinkin’ time,” I mumbled as I watched his ball roll to a stop several hundred yards away. Then I stepped up and hit my own ball. When it first came off the tee I thought momentarily that it was going straight. But like so many times before, after a hundred yards or so it started curling to the right, and before I could say “triple-bogey” it was lost in the forest along the western edge of the fairway. I heard it bounce several times on tree limbs and trunks as it descended.
“Every stinkin’ time,” my father ribbed.
We walked together down the right edge of the grass until we reached the spot where we believed my ball had crossed the tree line. Then we dropped our bags and headed off through the brush to find it. After five minutes of wandering around I finally spotted the thing thirty yards in, lying on the ground between several small saplings. Even if I’d had a clear view of the fairway and some room to swing I couldn’t have hit the ball from there, because course rules forbid playing from out of bounds. So I picked it up, added a stroke to my score, and went back to the edge of the fairway to hit it again.
My second shot was much straighter than my first, but a little too powerful for such a tight space and not quite in the right direction. It bounced a couple of times on the far side of the fairway, and then plunked into the line of trees opposite where I stood. “Dang it!” I snapped in frustration. After several minutes looking for it (again) I wanted to give up, telling London I’d just grab another ball from my bag so we could get going. He assured me that we would find the ball soon enough. Two groups of golfers played through before we finally discovered it tucked beneath the bushy arms of a sword fern.
My third stroke was decent—not great, but at least it stayed in bounds—and my fourth landed on the green. A couple of putts later I was done. I tended the flagstick for my father, whose three strokes earned him a birdie. He checked his watch again as soon as the ball dropped into the cup. “Okay,” he said as he peeled the golf glove off his left hand and tucked it in his back pocket. “I told you in advance what the topic of the lesson was. Now you tell me what you learned as we head back to the clubhouse.”
As we began walking, I mentally retraced our steps along the second hole, from my first lost ball until my final stroke dropped in the cup. With a little imagination, an idea started to form in my head. “How about this? Although I know that golf is not life, if I were to acknowledge that they shared some generic similarities, then, based on the way I just played that hole, one could probably make the argument that, in life, not everyone is going to knock the ball straight down the fairway every time. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
“Of course.” He grinned. “Anything else?”
“I guess I could infer that I should expect my child to slice or hook from time to time, but if I’ve taught him
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