Four Iron
The driver is a violent swing, and really a different animal than your four but it's pretty easy to adjust and after all - a swing, is a swing.
Hitting well kind of rubs off on everyone around you. My son wanted to hit four but he had to choke so far up the club I felt it better to give him my 60 degree wedge and let him hit that so that at least he can hold a little grip. Before you know it that kid was hitting them high and soft and 20 yards.
My daughter, who was reading a book - decided that she would catch me on the putting green while my son was slapping balls downrange - and inform me that it was time to go. Following me around the putting green, and over to the driving range - I was treated to a break from her badgering - long enough for me to encourage her to try and hit a shot. Unfortunately for me, I tried a little trash talking off the teebox with her.. I said to my son we'd probably want to back up and get to the side in case she hit it backwards.
And she missed the ball and, ok.. then got really pissed off at me and didn't try again. Thats a common pattern with her. If she fucks up, its someone else's fault. I think she gets it from her mom. So . I didn't get to see her really hit. This is my fault, though. I guess. I was just talkin' trash.. :D
My son and I hit some nice ones yesterday. Dead straight and long. Our misses were also pretty spectacular. Unfortunately. My son has this thing going about Minnesota, and real estate. He wants to be a real estate agent (?) and live in Minnesota (??) .. and he separated the driving range into four parts "Wisconsin" and "Minnesota" and then north and south for each. So a really good shot was "Duluth"... and then of course if you shanked it you got "Madison".
Part of this thing has to do with the fact that he knows that Charles Schultz came from Minnesota and he wants to go see Snoopy and Linus and Lucy Van Pelt.
I remember what it was like. :) I once had my mom buy a pair of "batman" tennis shoes because I thought it would make me jump like batman.
Now if only there was something I could buy that made me hit the ball like Phil Mickelson...
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…I thought you’d had a major psychological breakthrough- or at least, that’s what I saw in the Tea Leaves you’d let me try to interpret. I thought you were signaling you might have learned something important about how to deal with your damage without hurting me, that you were defying expectations & maybe getting a new understanding of equality between us, instead of you requiring an advantage over me to play, or something. I thought maybe you were even considering talking to me sometime soon- that’s a laugh!
—?? What was that back there?
I’m wondering if you were getting my hopes up just for the hell of it.
If so- *sighhh*
-c’mon, man. Quit dicking around with me.
In other news, I know for a Fact that trash-talking one’s young daughter after she attempts something for the first time doesn’t accomplish anything good. It didn’t feel good to me back when my mom & dad would do that, but since feelings were rarely ever acknowledged in my house and were even seen as childish, I couldn’t name or understand what I felt at the time. All I knew in those moments was that of course I’d fucked something up, and that my existence was a disappointment. I can’t speak for what your daughter felt at the time, though- you seem to have spent more time with your children than my dad did. Growing up, I don’t remember my father ever taking me to school, or picking me up from anywhere, for example.
Were you so satisfied at winning me over with the possible breakthrough that that was the end of this gambit and you lost interest?
Damned if I know.
“….The perplexed ghost of Bill Gates arrived late. He remained in the background behind Taylor Swift, hazy and squinting, until they were all dismissed for the day. The phantom shade of the philanthropic billionaire was last seen cruising at a low altitude near an undisclosed server farm on the west coast…”
——
Sunday Night
This crowded parking lot
turns deserted
and I’m in the arms of time
the driver’s seat
putting off going back
to myself
just yet
A full moon appeared behind the trees
in a Maxfield Parrish,
butter on periwinkle,
a soft curve of its circle misted
with lavender water vapor
Later on, it had clarified
to tart pale lemon,
glowing on violet
Later still,
and the moon is more like ours
the gleaming coin a high pale silver
clean, and cold
this one
is set in a misty perihelion,
outlined by bands of the spectrum
(if you look closely enough)
Our Lady
gazes down,
patient
shepherding streams of coursing lights
in parallel red and white
heads and tails
We both attend
She and I
this Sunday night,
and always.
———