Goose 2

 The 6th hole is a par 3. It has an elevated tee and a gently pitched fairway that rolls almost 200 yards downward to a wide, but shallow green. The pin is up front and set off in the lefthand corner. 

To the right of the green is a pond in high grass. To the left is a sprawling sand trap. Further out to the left is a high grassy knoll with a towering fir tree on top and a flock of Canada geese resting in the shade at its base. 

The geese are everywhere on the course. They fly inland off the ocean and this place must look to them a perfect spot. They generally stay clear of the landing zones on the fairways. Close calls have no doubt shaped their behaviour. Everywhere else they treat as their own. 

As the other guys begin the ritual of club selection I do the same. We have all played this course, this hole countless times over the years yet we follow the same script. The comments deviate very little from time to time. Frank approaches with a 3 wood in hand.

“Think I’ll tee it up high, let the wind knock it down.” 

A short comedic pause

“Hole-in-one then?”

“What else?” Franks says, now waggling his club over the ball. We all snicker. The only thing missing is the rim shot. 

A loud thwack and the ball leaps off the driver face and climbs upward straight as a laser. It looks to be headed fifty yards past the green, then starts to slow and hangs in the air before dropping like a stone to the green ten feet from the hole. Frank does an admirable job of not looking shocked.

Ernie and Steve take a more conservative approach. Six irons struck below the wind. Both shots roll the last 50 or so yards onto the fringe, and settle an identical foot away from the putting surface and less than two feet away from each other and 5 feet from the hole. Text book stuff times two. They exchange nonchalant glances like it was just another day at the office. 

My turn. I take my hand off the head of the six iron and leave it hovering just above the bag. I've always believed that if you take your time that your 'golf gut' would guide you to the right club. I'm not sure if it's Frank calling his shot like a batter pointing over the center field wall or the Siamese twin six irons, but there's something like a current coursing through me. I drop my hand onto the 3 wood and feel a gentle pulse come up through it, or from me down into the club. I can't tell which and it 's all bullshit anyway, but you didn't hear it from me.

If you're a golfer and you play the game long enough you see things that make you believe in the impossible. Much the same way I imagine parishioners come to believe in miracles. Our need to find a reason overpowers any logic. I close my hand on the three wood and lift it from the bag. 

Standing over the ball, I look down the expanse of fairway to the emerald oasis of the green. For a golfer this is what it's all about. This feeling. This deal we make with ourselves to leave our brains out of it. It’s a kind of vacuum where all past disasters are shed. You stand like an artist before his blank canvas. I begin my backswing with a smooth slow motion, low and slow into a perfect coil. That's the Coca. The slightest pause and I begin my turn downward.  Hips first followed a millisecond later by chest and arms, through the ball wrists cracking at just right moment. That's the Cola. A loud piercing crack. Perfect contact. Every ounce of potential energy is delivered without resistance. My head comes up only after the ball is on its way. My first glimpse is hopeful then I realize that there’s a problem with the symmetry.The opposing lines of the fairway, the treeline and the green beyond have somehow shifted to the left. But of course they haven’t. It’s the ball that has betrayed the flow, whistling like a guided missile no more than ten feet off the fairway towards the grassy knoll, the fur tree and the geese below.

The ball skins the top of the knoll and in unison the flock of geese shoot into the air like bomb fragments.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to fill out a missing ball report Mr. Davenport", Frank chuckles from behind. 

I pull the cover onto my 3 wood without a word and start down after them. Breaking off about halfway, I follow what I'm guessing is the glide path of my errant drive. As I near the grassy knoll I see that one of the geese has stayed behind. I get to within ten feet and it pops up on one leg and hops away. The other leg hangs limply as it flaps its wings land lifts into the air. It lands again a safe distance away. I've hit the damn thing.