Pitching Wedge

“Six iron,” Karl thought to himself as he got out of the golf cart. “Maybe a five.”

He eyed the flag sitting on the edge of the green, a little green island in a sea of emerald grass. So nicely kept, you could still see the pattern the lawnmower left. Plaid, a pattern he would never want to be caught wearing. A couple of sand traps lay on either side. The shot needed to be straight. That’s all. Just straight. Any more or less could be made up with a little pitch shot.

“Loser buys!” shouted his friend, Trent.

Trent sat in the golf cart pointing across the fairway.

The beer lady was driving up to the next hole. The gas engine puttering along scared off the birds in the woods. In the heat and humidity of the day, she was a savior, especially for the ones who decided to walk. The back of her beer cart dripped water from all the melting ice keeping the beverages cool.

Karl licked his chapped lips, but shook his head. He needed to concentrate.

Focusing on the game was difficult. There were too many things going on in his life. Many he could handle and, of course, several things he could not – one of which being his job. After a long career in a field that was far less rewarding than he’d imagined, he had set off to look for a career change. Months and months invested in networking and only a couple of hopeful ventures had come of it. Yet the furthest it got was to the planning stage. Nothing was ever executed or even followed through. He couldn’t fathom the work ethics of these people. His friends had helped him make these connections, so he thought they were good leads. It was only his girlfriend at the time who saw them for what they were, dreamers with no sense of hard labor. All they wanted was quick easy success. Once someone had to lift a finger, they were out. It was a frustrating time. Karl wasn’t sure if he wanted to continue searching.

“A six?” cried Trent in the most condescending tone.

“I’m barely swinging these days,” he shouted back.

Sitting smug in the cart, Trent was already at the green. Trent just sat in the cart polishing his putter. The shining designer putter was probably worth more Karl’s whole set of golf clubs. They were two different people from two different worlds. Trent had climbed the corporate ladder and made it to the executive team, while Karl gave up everything to find something that had no corporate ladder. Mainstream names decorated every article of clothing Trent had on himself. From the matching white Nike golf shirt and cap to his navy Nike shorts, and even Nike golf shoes, he was a walking advertisement. His golf clubs were always the newest set available on the market. Golf is considered an expensive hobby, but for most people, it’s the cost of the game. For Trent, the costs are in his equipment.

“Swing harder then,” Trent egged on.

“I won’t make it there.”

“You need the loft to stick the landing.”

“It’s going to make it with a higher club.”

“You’re going to overshoot it if you hit it solid!”

“Just let me just play damnit!”

Then there were women. Karl’s last girlfriend had stung him bad. Even though they’ve been broken up for years now, she still keeps in contact with him. Not for the sake of keeping in touch, it felt more like gloating to Karl. Every conversation started with the many happy things that were happening in her life followed by the sad story of his life. Not once did she bring up their relationship. A subject Karl wished for as a kind reminder that he was wanted or even needed, but never got. People had told him to be open about his feelings for her. But his pride had taken him over now. She was the one that let him go. Why put food on the table for someone who doesn’t want to eat? That’s what he thought to himself.

“I’d use a pitch on this,” Trent insisted.

“Use a pitch then,” Karl took a few practice swings.

“I’m already on.”

If the game of golf was suppose to imitate life, then Karl believed life was just full of distractions. Everyone will get to the goal, the hole. It may take more strokes for others, but eventually, they’ll get there. That is, unless they lose their ball. For Karl, he wasn’t worried. He used to swing away. Using strength more than flexibility to drive the ball further and further. Back in the day, it was easy to drive about three hundred yards. Soon though, the drives developed a slice, which just threw off his game to the realm of unpredictability. Listening to everyone’s advice just led to more confusion. “Watch the clubface”, “keep the arm straight”, “keep your center still”, “watch your footing”, all were too much to remember for one stroke. These days, golf was a game to relax. Not listening to all the advice so many different types of players had. And now, Karl’s playing a decent game, under a hundred. Not the horrible double/triple bogie game he was used to. It was decent. Hasn’t improved but never went back over a hundred.

“It’s only a hundred yards away,” pleaded Trent.

“Shut up already!”

Now the thought of food had entered his mind. His stomach growled with a little rumble. His nose swears there are hot dogs with the beer lady. Maybe he should have listened to his roommate this morning and had a little breakfast.

“Relax,” Karl told himself.

Time froze and the surroundings hushed. He pulled back and then let go. His eyes stayed locked on the ball. He felt his head stay steady. His arms were straight. The clubface came down and made contact. The sound was perfect and the ball launched straight into the air. Both set of eyes tracked the ball, a little white speck floating in the blue skies. No hook, no slice, or even a fade. As it came down, it landed perfectly with just a few bounces.

“Nice shot,” Trent commented sarcastically. “If you were aiming that tee box. Told you, you’d overshoot it. Never listen.”

“Bite me.”

“I’m biting that dog you’re getting me, when you get your ball next to the beer lady.”

Karl strode ever so slowly over to the beer lady, refusing to ride in the cart with his friend. He flushed everything on his mind. The golf game was to help get his mind off of things. So it was time to just focus on the game. His stroke was perfect. Contact was solid. The path it took was dead on. No sand trap was getting a hold of his shot. There was only one thing he figured went wrong. He didn’t listen to the one person who was right there with him before taking the shot.