Sexton Chronicles: Golf Tales From a Left-handed Hack

No Time To Shout “FORE” When You Hit Yourself

The friend I took lessons with has something I don’t have–talent. He’s not a great golfer, but he’s achieved that which we dreamed of when we paid for our lessons. He’s an average golfer. I’m not an average golfer. I’d love to be an average golfer, but I have a feeling that threshold is above my grade. Waaaaay above my grade.

It was a later lesson. I was over hitting my driver on the girder. I’d learned to come up on my toes and not fall on my ass. My confidence was growing.

My friend was in the stall to my left as I stood on the artificial grass with my ball teed up. There were waist-high wire mesh barriers between each stall. He’s right-handed. When we teed up, we faced each other. I watched him make a beautiful swing and knock his ball cleanly into the plastic of the far wall of the dome. he was watching me as I took a mighty swing.

When a lefty swings and hits the ball with the toe of his club, the ball squirts off to the left. I toed the ball. It flew straight at my friend. It didn’t hit my friend because it collided at the speed of sound with the metal mesh barrier between us. Bored with the barrier between him and me, it flew by me and bounced off the barrier on my other side, bounced off that, and…

WHACK!

…Smacked me in the right thigh

I did what any man would do when he’s hit with a tiny white cannonball in the thigh. I screamed like a little girl and collapsed in a yammering puddle in the middle of the golf stall.

My friend and the golf pro, were too stunned to do anything but stand and stare for almost a full minute. Then they both fell to the floor in howling fits of laughter. That time, the pro’s wife didn’t bother to enter the dome. She saw me come in.

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