I know some people get just as excited about going to church as going to the dentist. Liz and I count ourselves fortunate to have a wonderful church home - for all intents and purposes, an extended family.
On this particular Sunday, Lonnie and I enjoyed a classic order of worship with Guillermo and Elena in their congregation, a small group with simple traditional and welcoming values. I felt the hugs of my better angels.
Afterward, Guillermo and I ventured to the golf course. Despite the fact this is one of my favorite pastimes with him, I was distracted by a few concerns.
For one thing, I wondered whether he would be showing me up since I hadn't been on the course recently. We'd always been pretty evenly matched, and I was hoping I could count on that.
And then there was the issue of my limited wardrobe.
Golf courses have always been a little finicky about what you wear for this gentleman's sport, and I was a little concerned. My saddlebags aren't what I'd consider roomy. Besides space for bike essentials (such as bungies, rain gear, a tire gauge, and Twinkies), they do provide a little additional room for frivolities like dry underwear.
Well, actually, there's a little more room than that. Like, I don't have to stand in my underwear and boots while waiting for the dryer, trying to pass it off as a brave style choice. Still, I'm limited to a small selection of all-purpose garments that can be somewhat compressed in the process.
Not only had I worn a collarless biker T-shirt to church (it's okay, the pastor was a biker in his youth), but I wondered how my swing would be affected by wearing boots instead of cleated golf shoes.
Guillermo signed us up at the clubhouse and rented an excellent set of clubs for me. It was a gorgeous day and we started off on the first few holes a little better than usual. The balls were mostly going where we wanted and it was great to spend some quality time catching up.
As we rounded the corner to the 7th hole, Guillermo groaned. With my master's degree in science, I immediately saw the problem. There was a significant lake squarely between us and the flag.
Besides the clubs we chose for the tee, we chased some older balls out of his bag - that looked like they'd enjoy a swim. I thought to myself we could just toss them in as a sacrifice to the Gods of Par and ride the cart path around to the hole, but of course we had to give it a shot.
I stepped up to the tee, lined up, and took my practice swing. I did my best to visualize the ball arcing nicely to the flag. Then I planted, lined up the shot, wound up, and let fly.
Sure enough, the ball flew directly to the middle of the lake.
... And skipped off the surface up onto the other side and up to the green.
I couldn't have planned it better. I would say I've never seen anything like it before, but incredibly, I have. While playing a round with my sister and third son, Luigi, he did the same exact thing.
I guess it runs in the family.
Next: Lonnie and I head for the Blue Ridge - and don't make it.
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