Hold the Tiger

Back in my freshman year in high school, we were required to join school clubs that offered extra (academic) curricular activities. I joined the Golf Club (no pun intended), as just a few days earlier I had seen my father putting his golf equipment in the back storage room of our house.

The club’s first meeting came around and there I was, brandishing a 5-iron around school, feeling mighty proud of myself. We were taught the fundamentals and allowed a few practice shots. My turn soon came up. I took my stance, steadied my grip, and did a couple of practice swings. Things looked good. I moved up to address the ball. A deep breath, then I swung away. Solid hit. I felt the contact through my arms. I heard someone shout, “Great shot!” But it was quickly followed by a louder, “Crap, it’s hooking left!” And hook it did, following a path that went to the club advisor’s head. Good thing we were hitting practice balls, which were made of plastic; but I soon became a member of the 4-H Club nonetheless.