That’s how I felt every time I looked down at my driver for the last several weeks. As it lay there, directly behind the ball on the tee, we would have a silent conversation.
“Take a swing and find out.”
Sometimes it was a line drive left into the woods. Sometimes a pop up that just cleared the women’s tee.
What happened? We’d been getting along so well. And then, without warning, it turned on me. The last straw was last Saturday. I played miserably. On the other hand, I was paired with a liquor distributor who had a fully stocked cart. I seldom drink when I play, but under the circumstances…
That night, I went down to the basement and pulled an old driver from a bag. I waggled it a time or two.
“Please, give me a chance. Let me see sunlight again.”
I opened my trunk, reached into my bag and removed the offending stick.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“You’re killing me. You’re outta here.”
“Not to the basement!”
“Have a good rest.”
When I watch the Big Dogs tee it up this week at the Travelers Championship in Cromwell, I’ll wonder whether the likes of Kenny the Elder and Rickie the Younger talk to their clubs when they’re not talking to their swing coaches, putting gurus, and sports shrinks.
I’ll bet they do.
It’s a head game.