Golfing Lessons

My Grandfather Harry Marland was a wise man. He never proved any scientific theories or outwardly shown his brilliance in a defining manner. He just simply portrayed wisdom by his behaviors. His voice rarely rose above a powerful tone, even when I was caught doing something wrong as a child. Instead he would simply let me know what I was doing was wrong and why, and in that itself I felt bad for my misdeed.

One of the things I loved the most about my Grandfathers demeanor was the way he thought before he spoke. Whether answering a question, or starting a conversation; you could tell he chose carefully the words he would use. When most human beings speak, we go off emotion. Words formulate on our brain and we expel them like they are needed to be released from the mind or the mind will suffocate; as though those words are rising from the depths of the ocean to capture their first breath of oxygen. The result of these actions usually involves the meaning of what we are trying to say to be misconstrued. A simple tone misplaced can change the whole parameter of a statement. Constructive criticism can turn cynical, admiration turned to jealousy, teachings turn into directions. It’s easy for the listener to find a different meaning and place judgment quickly when the person standing before them is speaking emotionally.

I remember once my Grandfather taking me golfing. I was young, and at this age I was known for my temper. Things upset me easily and I would find myself throwing the glorified temper tantrum as though a scripted act when getting frustrated. I would feel the blood begin to boil and as though there were no control over my actions. I was pissed, and the world was going to know it. I would take this anger out on anything or anyone near me. Walls would be punched, which would end with a busted hand and dented wall; yet no resolution to what frustrated me. Cuss words would fall out my mouth and things thrown; anyone near me falling prey to these actions. I would go into my demented rage, saying things that I didn’t even truly mean, with no concern for consequence. Most just stayed out of my way while occurring, parents administering punishment after finished. My Grandfather; however, had a different action on the greens of the golf course one sunny summer afternoon.

He was attempting to teach me the fine game that had been a relationship builder for him and my brother early in the year. My brother, as with most things in our youth, picked the sport up quite easily. We stood there on the driving range, my Grandfather and I, overlooking the wide span of open space before us. I was quite enthusiastic because I rarely got to spend time with him by myself, and hoped to make him proud of me with a nice hit of the golf ball. How hard could this really be, thought I impatient to step to the tee, the ball isn’t even moving.

My Grandfather attempted to give some tips on how to hold my hands, which felt uncomfortable and forced to me, like my fingers were bending in ways that should be administered as a torture device. He assisted with my stance bluntly, “Stand here, keep the ball here, bend the knees, keep your eyes down,” the orders came as though sharp sounds of instruction. I stood there, feeling awkwardly situated before this small, white, dimpled golf ball. I brought the club back fast like getting ready to hack a weed out of the lawn, and swung it forward with a thump as it struck the ground a few inches before hitting the ball. The club head, bouncing up with force, hit the top of the ball. It rolled off the tee and went about two feet forward, in which I began complaining before the ball and finished its roll.
“Have patience, Shawn,” My grandfather attempted to calm my nerves. “Golf is not as easy as it looks.”

We continued this pattern for about ten more times before I finally threw the club on the ground and stormed off claiming how stupid golf was. My Grandfather picked up the club and waked over to me as I sulked on a bench. He patiently held the club outstretched towards me and waited for me to look up. Doing so, he gave another nod back at the range with a stern look. It wasn’t a question of asking me if I would like to try again, he was telling me.

We went back and continued again the pattern, but this time my Grandfather adding words of advice, “Swing back slower, bring the club further back, your looking up, I’ll see where the ball goes.” In my mind I mocked every direction with an insult, yet followed the advice. After a few more attempts, the club connected and the ball soared through the air. With excitement I looked back at my Grandfather expecting to see him jumping up and down, yet he stood there, with the same poker face, watching the ball fly over the grass.

I questioned his motives, why was he not as happy as I, why was he standing there as though I hacked another ball two feet. He just stood there, looking at me, waiting for me to try again. So I tee’d up, expecting to smack the ball even further. I stood the same place, held my hands the same way, brought the club up the same speed, and whack; the ball rolled two feet. My temper flared, I got frustrated again and had enough. At this point, my Grandfather was ready as well. We collected the clubs and headed to the car.

On the ride home, I sat there disappointed at myself. The car was filled with silence as he had the same solemn look on his face. “You know Shawn,” he calmly stated, “you get very mad when you make a mistake, and very happy when you do something right. It seems to me you have two extremes, and voice them quickly.” That was all he said. He dropped me off at my Mom’s house and that was the end of my golfing experience.

As I got older, my temper was something I always had to work at. Many times I wound up in fist fights, pissed off friends, or angry girlfriends from words and actions taken in a barrage of angst. On the other hand, being the life of the party when in a good mood; happy, cracking jokes like nothing can bother me. This often went back to the two extremes, the Gemini inside of me.

This year has seemed to be yet another where this action has dictated my life. Work, women and friends were constantly plagued by a multitude of personalities; controlled by reactions. I remembered, while sitting at home one night, alone with my sixth beer warming my thoughts, on that day and what my Grandfather had not only said, but how he acted. He didn’t get upset at me, for either doing bad or for getting upset. He didn’t get overly excited for me as I made connection with that ball. He just watched and reacted slightly. This, made perfect sense with his statement in the car. We often allow our emotions to dictate our actions. By not allowing our emotions to get to us, we can react in a more positive way.

This should be the development of our actions. When something is happening, think before you speak. Take that extra breath and formulate the words correctly, as to make sure the meaning is clear and precise; versus a spattering of thoughts. Before acting on a feeling, think of consequences at hand and how that although this is what one feels at that point in time, see how things change and develop. Before speaking, think of how your actions will be portrayed and the affect they might have.

Later in life, I picked up the club again and began to golf. When doing so, the first thoughts etched in my brain were the quick directions my Grandpa provided. I could hear each given as I set myself before the ball. As I slowly brought the club back, hands in the right position, feet spaced just right, I could still feel him behind me. Then, as I brought the club down, whack, the ball rolled forward about two feet. I couldn’t help but smile.