Quinn Essentials Volume 1
The rain was no longer horizontal, now coming down straight, although more enthusiastically. The horizon was close, defined by rolling dark clouds; the temperature hovered around 8C. In other words, it was a perfect day to be at the range.
I picked what looked like the driest mat; the only other guy at that end of the stalls – a half dozen would-be Furyks flailed near the centre of this semicircle of flagellation, perhaps wanting to be near the exit – was next to me, our meditations separated by a three-foot high section of plywood, the green paint scuffed and tired.
We’d exchanged nods when I arrived, and had then gone about our business. From his headdress, I’d subconsciously guessed that he was from India or Pakistan. From mine, he probably thought I was from the planet Srixon.
We hit our yellow Top Flites in a comfortably shared silence, the spray from the sodden mats darkening our pant legs, the occasional gusts sending the cold rain into our faces. Refreshing really, or quite manic.
About a half-bucket in I took a break, to change my wet glove really, and as I retrieved a dry one I looked toward the parking lot where a handful of vehicles glistening with rainwater looked better than they should. A guy was helping a little tyke, couldn’t have been more than four years old, up the slight incline. The kid had those Osh-Kosh type overalls on, feet the size of putter heads, and a clear-eyed determination the world was just waiting to dim. Once they got up the slope, the guy handed his little charge a cut-down club and the tyke started two-handed, split-gripped whiffs at the dandelion heads, sending up shimmering sprays. It was such a Norman Rockwell, pre-First Tee moment that I had to get the attention of my battery mate.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Look at this. This is golf; passing the game along to the next generation.”
He turned, propped his club and crossed his feet – doing the full Leadbetter – and then smiled.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “He’s introducing him to a lifetime of puzzlement.”
Ever since that day, his words have resonated. How do you explain the obsession other than describing it, to coin a word, as a case of terminal perplexion? Unfortunately, it has proven to be eminently communicable.
The guy at the range was right, although how he can play in a turban – not that there’s anything wrong with that – is a puzzle in itself. Golf is the Rubik’s Cube of sport: unsolvable except by a precious few, infinitely frustrating to the rest. Yet, we persist.
That last rumble sounded close. The trees are protesting a bit around the edges. Little pats on the window are becoming pings; the first rivulets are forming and initiating their eccentric patterns. It’s suddenly darker. If this gets much worse, it will be a perfect afternoon to go to the range.
Hal Quinn is a writer / broadcaster whose articles and columns have appeared in magazines and newspapers across North America, England, and as far away as New Zealand. Quinn lives in North Vancouver with his wife, their two daughters, and their dog Mulligan.
May Also be of Interest:
- Quinn Essentials Volume 3
- Quinn Essentials Volume 2
- Amateur Golf’s Evangelist
- Notebook: Scotty Cameron
- A Good Slice…
Loading ...