THWACK
March 29th, 2021
Starring: A (45-70)
A
There’s a point in every month where I get ungrateful for life. My head goes to muck, nothing feels right. No rhyme or reason to it. It just emerges from the ether and latches on; like a tick, or a stray wet hair.
So when it comes—and trust me, you'd feel it too—I do the only thing I know: get on my bike and pedal to the Lancaster Willows public golf course, six miles West.
I don’t play golf. I could probably afford to now, but I don’t feel like it. I’ve gone this long abstaining, I've decided to make it a life-long commitment. Little vendettas add fuel to the fire—they don’t hurt anybody.
The man who works at the pro shop is named Gill. Gill is a kind man whose greatest trait is his loyalty. In 1982, during his tenure as the high school golf coach, Gill went into cardiac arrest during a routine fire drill, when he was CPR-resuscitated by a substitute teacher. That substitute teacher was my mother, and because I am his savior’s child and he is a loyal man, Gill treats me well. My presence in the pro shop is always greeted with a grin, and a brass key he tosses into my palm.
The key fits the padlock to the red shed, parallel to the driving range. Lancaster Willows is known for it, maybe more than their 18 holes. The top range in the area code, and third in the state, per MidwestGolfer.org. The local college squad takes their strokes here. Some of the semi-pros make appearances too. Sunup to sundown, six and a half days a week, the sweet sounds of THWACK.
The barn is home to The Therapist. Or that’s what I call it. It’s like any other golf cart, except it’s built like a stormchaser van, every inch of cockpit covered with protective metal screens, eight baskets on wheels attached to the front. It is a beautiful yet unpredictable creature, but one I’ve learned to tame with time. Behind the wheel of this majestic mini-tank, I turn the ignition. The Therapist roars awake as we push out from its lair, off to our session.
From down range, the range appears packed—every square foot of turf filled. The more the merrier. I roll The Therapist to the back entrance, waiting as the gate slowly opens. I’m all gladiator adrenaline: me versus a legion of white spheres. I lick my lips and step in the arena.
It's a warzone out there. The engine thrumming, the crisp cadence of drivers and five irons. Balls rain on me from the sky, like a volley of medieval arrows—CLANGS, BONKS, POWS, PINGS, THUNKS, and FTANGS— a siege of onomatopoeia!
But I’m safe. Nestled in the eye of the storm, an inch of iron between me and brain damage. I’m shaken. I’m rattled. Yet I’ve never felt so alive. Grateful to breathe, to think. To be.
When my baskets are filled, I drive back to the barn. Gill's there, waiting to unload them. “Go home,” he insists. “You’ve helped enough.”
The whole bike home, I laugh. Gill can’t understand he’s doing me the service. The whole range is. Every ball they hit at me, it’s another demon pried loose. I really hope they’re exorcising theirs too.
Because we all gotta clear the muck some way. Mine’s cheating death.