I tend to think of the golf swing as a poem. The opening phrase of this poem will always be the grip. The hands unite to form a single unit by the simple overlap of the little finger. Lowly and slowly, the clubhead is led back, pulled into position not by the hands, but by the body, which turns away from the target, shifting weight to the right side without shifting balance. Tempo is everything; perfection unobtainable as the body coils down at the top of the swing. There’s a slight hesitation. A little nod to the gods… That he is fallible. That perfection is unobtainable. And now the weight begins shifting back to the left pulled by the powers inside the earth. It's alive, this swing! A living sculpture and down through contact, always down, striking the ball crisply, with character. A tuning fork goes off in your heart and your loins. Such a pure feeling is the well-struck golf shot. Now the follow through to finish. Always on line. The reverse C of the Golden Bear! The steel workers' power and brawn of Carl Sandburg's Arnold Palmer!“What Is The Golf Swing?” Roy McAvoy, Tin Cup, 1996
Now you know I’m lying. My experience can best be described as “spiritual”, you know, I talk with the Almighty all the time on the course. I am now exaggerating too far in the opposite direction. I purposefully do not take golf seriously or play often as that would drive me to wishing to be better and finding no solace in the game.
As for my relaxing chauffer on the course, Tyrel needs practice at following the signs and keeping FOUR wheels on the ground. We’ll be going again!