The Long Drive

 

by SirWilho

 

No way could I possibly hit the golf ball 900 yards so I laid into it with the mightiest of swings.  A cleaner hit was impossible and this ball went screaming to the man near the hole, his ice fishing hole.

The hypnotic jigging of his pole was barely seen as this content fisherman enjoyed his carefree day.   I wonder how he would have reacted if he knew that a golf ball was coming at him like a shotgun slug.  There was no way for him to see it coming either, kind of like when we would take our recurve bows into the field and shoot arrows straight into the air.  We could see them go up, then stop, turn downward, but then disappear.  Pure skin picking panic was felt as the arrow careened back towards earth and our evidently soft skulls.

Youth and ignorance gave up no thought that the bounce of a golf ball on a frozen lake would propel it almost the same distance again, and again, and again…

He didn’t know it was coming, how could he?  Who in their right mind would hit golf balls on a frozen lake?  Turns out it was the likes of me who would, and panic was setting in fast because it sure looked like that ball was going to take his head off.

“What to do?” brain sputtered, “Yell Fore?”  “Nope, he is a fisherman, not golfer,” brain reasoned.  My legs and feet did a weird studder/chopping step while my arms were flailing and I just kinda hollered something like “SSKKMMORREE”.  (A weird combination of words the brain concocted defining the danger he was in)  A casual look was cast my way as I saw him shield his eyes from the suns glare.  “Nope, he has no idea,” my brain sums it up.  Right about then I lost sight of my ball.

See, in the Upper Peninsula, Spring didn’t just spring up, it teased you for months until a person took measures into their own hands to eek away at the cabin fever.  Playing golf on the lake was one of my sanity measures.  The sun would thaw (or unthaw, as we would say), the snow on the lake then find its way down an old fishing hole so the end result was that you were left with a perfectly flat driving range.  Somewhat slippery but I would find a little patch of snow for traction and also be able to tee the ball up.

The driving range was10 miles away and snow covered so hitting balls there was out.  Sometimes I shoveled in front of the hay bales we used for sighting in our bows.  The sun would melt the tundra a bit giving up a piece of ground to hit off of and into the gnarly bales.  Most time they just hit the hay, then dropped down, some times they hit the hay and became lost.  Then, I would accidently hit the lost ball with a fresh one and it came back at me going 100 miles an hour.   Springtime golf in the U.P. was tough.

I remember our golf team playing in Marquette with the North wind blowing off Lake Superior and snow was whipping by.  Snowbanks were an unplayable lie and you got a free drop.  Winter rules were and are the norm even in the dead of summer. (It’s where you can fiddle with your ball and not considered cheating)  Ever try to hit a 4 iron in 30 degree weather?  Jeez, no wonder I have arthritis in my hands.

So the ball is bouncing directly at this fisherman when I lost sight of it.  Fisherman is now watching me cautiously as I sauntered across the lake.  He looked mad but I couldn’t be sure, and was still sitting consciously on his stool.  “Musta bounced right over his head,” my mind reckoned as I approached.

There it was, my orange MaxFli, only 10 feet away from him.  (By the way, this ball was one of only 3 golf balls that I have ever bought in my lifetime of golfing, no lie.)  Buying golf balls to me is like investing money in the Lions franchise, ya just ain’t getting that money back, same with a bought golf ball.  New balls scream for the woods, old balls you don’t care and then fly reasonably straight.  Sure, I might hold up play sometimes but nobody cares when a guy spends 20 minutes looking for their ball… right?

The fisherman looks at me warily and I come to the conclusion that he didn’t even see the ball near him.  I quickly ask him about his fish, what he’s using for a lure, how bright the sun is, etc. etc. until I wear him out mentally with my boring talk and he looks away for a split second while I pick up my ball.

“Well, good luck fishin’ and I think I heard my ma callin’ me in for lunch so have a good ‘un, see ya,” says the smiling kid who just hit a golf ball 900 yards.