When life gets too serious, too hectic, too unfair, I dwell, as best I can, on the superficial. Therefore, today's post is about my golf swing. My swing is messed up. Seriously messed up. I dip my right shoulder and come down on the inside of the ball. I know this because I took a lesson on Sunday, hoping to correct the ugliness. Jason, my golf teacher, normally fixes my swing in about ten minutes. He was baffled. We went as far as we could, but I still haven't gotten the dip out of my shoulder.
I have one thing going for me though. Always have. At the top of my swing there’s a millisecond where the club head is at a dead halt before gravity takes over and the club swings down toward the ball. It’s an inexplicable pause, a natural timing device that sets up the tempo of my swing. Blank time.
This unstructured time is what the other players notice and admire. "What are you thinking about when the club is up there?" they ask. I can't answer. I don't know. My mind is somewhere, but in a place I can't identify. It's an inexplicable pause, a little rift of time. That's some sacred stuff.