Golf pros made me do it. Here was I, cheerfully plodding along in the nether world of left handed golfers, hopefully chipping away at the worst of my bad swinging habits. If Mike Weir could do it, why couldn’t I show them that lefties are golfers too. But they insisted that, for me, leftyism just was not right. And they got me to try it, time and time again in off season practice sessions, working away at right shoulder swings, head down, eye on the ball, ad nauseam. And overnight, more or less, I managed to get it right. Sort of.
Operation Transformation has been in full swing, so to speak, ever since. The net-draped walls of that golf school hideaway somehow stood up that spring to a barrage of spectacularly misdirected hits. Fellow learners were too intent on their own pursuit of perfection to notice anyway. For over four months, at three or four hours a week, the practice sessions continued. A tough grind, learning the finer points of grip, stance, back swing, weight transfer, follow-through, etc., but someone had to do it. And believe it or, it just seemed to work.
True enough, the right handed swing did feel better, but somehow that ball never seemed to go straighter or longer. I bought myself a little insurance, sneakily tossing an old leftie seven iron into my bag, ready to let loose when the righties went all wrong. Yet slowly though by no means surely, the switch-over swing got to feel almost natural, and a few good hits began to show. No miracle make-over, mind you, but the odd three wood success works wonders for the hacker’s morale. And a few setbacks now and then are to be expected, aren’t they?
Then time came for another National Press Club Tournament, I was in a foursome in a best ball format. With me was my golfing buddy who was normally pretty sound on any old course. But we all had an off day. You can guess the result: Another Most Honest Player award! Oh well, as consolation, we got first pick of the prizes after the least honest – er, the winners. But hope springs eternal, doesn’t it.
Never did hit a ball through the clubhouse window, but the thwacking sounds got sweeter day by day. Sweet enough to raise expectations that maybe, just maybe, I’d get to the stage where I could break that danged 100 mark. Yes, indeed, I told myself, at this rate, I’ll be knocking that ball a full 100 yards before you know it. Yep, maybe I’ve finally gotten it right!