The golf swing is like dancing, rock back to the right leg and then rock to the left. Or maybe the old baseball image: the batter stands at the plate with his weight on his back leg; as the pitch approaches he lifts the left leg and steps into the ball, transferring almost all his weight onto that lead leg. Or maybe the bullwhip image: take the right hand back with the wrist lagging behind the arm, dragging the whip behind and then when the arm starts forward the wrist falls behind and then forward as fast as it can, and the tip of the whip simply explodes toward the target. Or the mechanical image: address the ball, then extend the club and arms straight out in front, then using only the wrists raise the club perpendicular to the ground, then, without changing the wrists in any way, raise the arms to a position behind the right ear. Voila! There it is, the position you want when you reach the peak of the backswing.
Vi Milkint, a woman I knew from Stardust golf course, came in and said to me with a little smile, “Clare died this morning at 4:53, and I came in to get a merchandise slip that he won last week.” Now, at first it didn’t register on me who she was talking about, so I just handed the slip folder to her and she pulled it out. I craned my neck to see who it was and then it hit me, it was her husband Clarence who had died. I then properly sympathized with her. But it seemed so odd that only five hours after his death she was in to get his final golf winnings, and to tell me about it so coolly and unemotionally. I guess I just can’t get used to the idea that some people I see around town, friends, golfing acquaintances, just don’t show up one day. Finis! Poof! I guess maybe that’s the way I’d like to go. Just not show up one day. Poof!