The Eighteenth Hole

The Eighteenth Hole

(An Ode to the Callaway in Five Strokes)

                                           I

Whoosh-plink! The gleaming Callaway, a blur,

Is gone. Aloft. You think. Your follow-through

Not quite the graceful arc, the balanced flow

You sought. That perfect sweet contact is rare

And thrilling all the more amongst the dross,

When like a smooth machine you swing and fling

The clubhead through the ball and badda bing!

But not this time. A slice. A sense of loss.

The soaring ball at first flies straight and true -

A white flash in the blue - but wicked spin

Conspires now with the wind resulting in

A wilful rightward swerve rebuking you.

Thus are life's slight miscalculations

Pregnant with grim ramifications.

                                       II

Landing adjacent to the hawthorn hedge

Your precious Callaway settles to rest

Amongst the speedwell, ribwort, grass and sedge.

You stride forth urgently, as on a quest,

Investigating tussocks with your wedge,

Scanning with anxious eyes, unblinking lest

The quarry's missed. But there, a glimpse of white

Amid the green, your ball, to your delight.

The scents of Spring, the white clouds in the sky,

The song of birds, the joy of exercise

Intoxicate despite the awkward lie,

But now is not the time to eulogise.

Nine iron flash and smash through grass and weed;

Uprooting, flailing pollen, pod and seed.  

                                         III

Your ball rescued from oblivion

Sits proudly on the fairway. Precious sphere!

Beloved globe! Your darling, dimpled dear.

And bless the close-cut sward it rests upon.

The tiered green lies temptingly beyond

That outstretched limb of flowering cherry tree

Dispersing its pink blossoms prettily,

A ditch, two sand-traps and a shimmering pond.

Select the six-iron, settle in your stance.

Before your back-swing take a final glance.

Empty your mind to find that inner peace.

Relax, breathe in, swing slowly, then....release!

For this shot were you born! For this you came!

She flies: your life's fulfilment in a game.

                                           IV

Approach, repair the pitch-mark on the green,

Press down your lucky dime, pick up your ball

And wipe away the grass stains and the soil.

Polish it well: it rolls more truly clean.

Replace the ball and follow your routine:

Take four steps back, crouch down and plot the line

Then practise, twice, the stroke that will consign

Your Callaway to its fate. Adrenaline

Is pumping, your putter a pendulum

About to swing. All your envisaging

And re-envisaging, rehearsed rhythm

And thrust, that internal calculating

Is made external ...now. It's rolling, but

Your under-hit has left a three-foot putt.

                                        V

Don't doubt that you can sink the Callaway.

Be firm of purpose, focused, positive.

You cannot fail. There simply is no way

The ball can miss that hole if you believe.

But now your eyes behave like microscopes -

 Gigantic worm-casts, spike-marks, stray grass-blades

Leap from a landscape of confusing slopes.

All eyes are on you. Now your courage fades.

A partner coughs, a distant sea-bird calls.

What hope is there when every sound appals?

You putt. It's good! Oh no! Too weak! It stalls

Precipitously. But then (Oh, yes!).... it falls.

Though rinsed and wrung you know you are alive

And pleased enough to finish with a five.