It's just a flesh wound

Even though I knew it wasn't a good idea, I hit a golf driving range this past weekend. 

I’ve never been a great golfer but what I lack in talent I more than make up for with passion for the game. The true, sweet-spot hits of the ball are few and far between for a golfer of my ability, but they came often enough to keep me returning to the links.

But because of some physical restrictions — minor details like having shoulders that snap, crackle and pop as I walk, hips that don’t pivot and knees that mouth off more than an angry adolescent who has had his electronic devices taken away — it’s been several years since I visited a driving range, let alone actually shot a round.

But it’s that time of year, and I’ve had to listen to many friends as they regaled me with stories of their outings to the links and the subsequent fun and fellowship at the 19th hole. In spite of being barely able to walk, I convinced myself that I could stand at a tee, hit a few balls without falling down and hopefully hit more of them than I missed, all while catching some rays and manufacturing some much-needed vitamin D while I was at it.

It was a stupid move.

On about the fourth ball I hit, which was about the 77th swing I took, my right arm ripped from the shoulder socket and landed farther down the field than the ball I had just hit. Undeterred by a mere flesh wound, I continued my quest — my holy grail, as it were — of finishing the bucket of balls. Waste not, want not, blah, blah, blah.

Somewhere between balls eight and nine, I lost my right leg. I would like to say it landed a good hundred yards away but it just gave up the ghost — dropped from the hip socket and landed on the tee pad with a thud. 

Now with a scratch and a flesh wound, balancing on one leg and swinging the club with one arm became more of a challenge but I persisted. When my left leg followed the example of the right, I conceded I had a problem by choking up a bit on the club as I teetered on my torso.

It ended up being impossible to choke up on the driver enough to prevent pounding the club into the ground. After a very nice Taylor Made driver was but a mangled mess of scrap metal, I allowed as how I might have to call it quits and seek medical attention. After all, I needed the one remaining arm to drive the car.

I’m convinced I will heal in time to give it another go next weekend.

After all, it’s just a flesh wound — or two or three.

Ibuprofen, anyone?