Here now:
REEF - THE RUMINATION RUMINATION
Over the weekend the humming birds got into The Apartment by entering through the open windows, and the flapping of their wings stirred up the sweet time inside, and at dawn on Monday Lewisburg awoke out of its lethargy of years with the warm, soft breeze of a great man, Reef. With this warp in the space-time continuum, I was able to travel back to the time of our first acquaintance.
Call me Stan. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world of the Susquehanna. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before Edwin Watts, and watching an insipid December golf tournament; and especially whenever my handicap gets such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to the Susquehanna as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to Bucknell. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men and women in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards Bucknell with me.
I knocked on the door of The Apartment, never mind the number, there is only one set of rooms rightfully called The Apartment. I knocked on the door but heard no answer above Springsteen playing so all Lewisburg could hear. I opened the door to a smoke filled room, no doubt the result of the location of The Apartment at the North-South, East-West intersection of a great highway and railway both spewing smoke, steam, and dust through the open windows so that one could barely see to the opposite wall. Through the haze I dimly saw a man swinging as if playing golf. The swing was balanced, the plane exquisite, the follow through fluid. I had never seen such perfection. Over and over he repeated exactly the same swing. I quietly closed the door and stepped away, I did not want to intrude on a mystical moment. This was my first sight of Reef. We met more formally at a later time when I reached out from under a table where I had conveniently fallen asleep to shake his hand. I never let him know I had seen the swing. Over the years, I would from time to time come across him practicing the drive, long irons, short irons, putter, but never with a club or a ball. I never said anything. Like Owen Meany, he was rehearsing for greater events to come.
The depth of his commitment became most apparent during a Spring co-ed softball game. His jaw dropped and his eyes opened wide, as he called to everyone to look at the incredible legs on the right fielder. We were a bit puzzled. Reef, I said, my attention has been drawn to legs on occasion, but they have been women’s legs, not that there is anything wrong with looking at men’s legs. Reef insisted that the right fielder was a woman. When the burly right fielder came in between innings his maleness was amply confirmed and Reef was clearly chagrinned. I knew the problem was his focus on golf to the neglect of all other priorities. I relayed the advice once given to me by my mother: Gordon, spend your money on alcohol and wild women like other normal young men your age. Reef, I lied, anyone could mistake men’s legs for women’s, but you do need practice. Look at more women. Meet some. They have attributes you might find to your liking.
I don’t know if Reef ever took my advice to the extent I advocated. I would still surprise him practicing his swing (there is an excellent opportunity for a single entendre here with a simple swing-stroke substitution, but I have tastefully avoided taking advantage of it). While many of us were living lives of shallow dissipation, Reef maintained his focus on greater, future events, which he somehow lucidly foresaw.
Skip many years to the future: The AI Four-ball at Windermere CC, where Reef and his teammate Stan made a miraculous comeback on the back nine. But, it was all about to be thrown away. Reef had a treacherous, 6 ft downhill putt to keep his team in the match, an impossible putt under the stressful circumstances. No mere mortal could have made that putt, but Reef did, delivering a crushing blow to the opposition. Reef and his partner went on to win the match on the next hole. The reason for Reef's early focus on golf suddenly became apparent. He saw this event. He knew its importance. He practiced incessantly for it. (Oddly, the practice was rarely with a golf club or golf ball. As a matter of fact, I don’t think Reef played a round during my two years at Bucknell. During the subsequent 20+ years, I think he played as many rounds as Mitch plays in a month. He no doubt did not want to compromise the Platonic perfection of his swing by actually hitting a golf ball with a golf club).
Skip ahead a few more years, to the waning days of his golf career. Reef had already attained greatness. He had nothing to prove. Nevertheless, he again achieved greatness. Again we were playing AI Four Ball. The stark emotionalism of the event has wiped the name of the course from my memory. Reef unleashed a colossal drive, the longest in AI history, a record that may stand for all time (unless someone gets to hit off the top of a cliff again). The ball ended up 380 yds from the tee. The ever humble Reef has pointed out that the hole was a trifle downhill, but it should be noted that nobody else was within 50 yds of him. [Ed Note: or his ball for that matter] “The Drive” as it came to be known, was a fitting capstone to a remarkable golf career that involved almost no golf.
No comments:
Post a Comment