"This hole's fairly straightforward," Chris told me, and I had to believe him; he was one of the few people I knew that had played here. I tried to take a grip on the foreign 3-Wood I had grabbed from the bag. The clubs weren't mine, the bag wasn't mine, in fact, the country wasn't mine. The grip on the club was a bit slippery, which wasn't surprising, considering the unwavering rain slanting right into our faces.
Of course the choice to spend a semester abroad in Scotland was made with the knowledge that I would have four straight months of rain slanting into my face.
Why did I choose Scotland? That's what they asked me in the application essay, and what I ask myself every time I come home with rain in my shoes. I'll give the same two answers now that I wrote on my essay: golf, and Braveheart. Simple enough I think. But people usually laugh when I tell them my reasons, thinking that it's a canned joke I use on everyone who asks the same question. "Wrong," I say, as I stare at them straight-faced.
I came here because Braveheart is a very cool movie that takes place in Scotland, though to my eternal disappointment, I recently discovered that the majority of it was filmed in Ireland. Apparently, it's cheaper to film movies in Ireland, no American will know the difference, and the Irish army has nothing better to do than serve as extras in the war scenes.
More importantly, though, I came here because Scotland has more golf courses per person than any country in the world, and is the only country in the world that has St. Andrews' Old Course, which I am determined to play.
Let me explain the situation that faced me on a recent weekend. The aforementioned Chris is a 16-year old from St. Andrews whose parents and four brothers I stayed with for a few days. Second, he had been kind enough to take me onto St. Andrews' New Course for a few holes in the driving rain.
Of course, heaven to me is the Old Course. It's the pinnacle of golf, the Mecca. It's Fenway Park, Yankee Stadium, the Polo Grounds, and Ebbets Field all wrapped into 18 holes of history and beauty.
I wasn't on heaven, I was on one of six other courses that had been built to surround heaven, but if I hooked my drive enough on the first hole, Chris told me, I would have gotten to play my second shot from the third fairway of the Old Course.
Lord knows I tried, but somehow I was abandoned by my annoying hook, which is sometimes nicknamed my annoying slice, though my golf coach doesn't approve of the "s" word, preferring 'power fade.' His fade is Arnold Schwarzenegger powerful.
I took my stance, looked one more time at what appeared to be a patch of bushes, glanced over at Chris _ who again assured me I was aimed correctly at the fairway _ and started my backswing.
The downswing was anything but graceful, as I merely tried to bring weaker than average arms, a larger than average gut, and about average legs down through the ball at the same time.
I've never much cared how I look upon impact, as hopefully I'm moving too quickly for anyone to take note. Rather, it's the dignity of the follow-through that has always been of primary importance to me. When I take practice swings in the mirror, it's the follow-through that I stare at. It's the part of the swing that stays in people's memories. No one saw Michelangelo paint the Sisteen Chapel, we just admire the final product.
I try to model my follow-through after David Duval's (one of the top golfers in the world not named Tiger), as he brings his chest square to the target, then stands in a pose of power and strength that seems to will the ball to move where he wants _ and it usually does.
Like I said, I try to do that. What happens normally is that the emphasis I put on rotating around usually causes me to lose my balance, and my ball is never quite as intimidated by a 5'10" 20-year old who needs his club just to stay on his feet.
So it was with this attempted grace and eventual clumsiness that I managed to lace into the ball, and send it screaming towards the fairway, it rose... just a bit though, and came screeching to a stop in the fairway. And that was the start of my journey, which is far from complete.
Imagine, for a second, dying with the knowledge that most likely you'll end up in heaven. When you get up there, you're given a tour by an angel, you're allowed to walk around the place, you even get to have a cup of coffee and stop into the souvenir shop, but then you're told you'll have to wait four months for another chance, but thanks for buying the souvenir pin. That's how I felt after seven holes with Chris.
I made a bogie on that first hole, which is what I did on the second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth, before we turned in because Chris' parents were due to pick us up. All we had time for was one hole _ the eighteenth. I really wanted a par to mark my first time on a Scottish golf course. After a good drive I found the fairway, and with a seven-iron landed on the green, so I was in great shape to get down in four.
But then, as it tends to do in pressure situations, my putter decided to head to the pub instead of helping me to finish the hole, and I three-putted my way to my seventh straight bogie.
"Oh well," I said to Chris. "I'll save the pars for the Old Course."
"And the birdies and eagles, as well," he replied in the perfect Scottish accent that you see in movies and try to emulate, but just can't make it sound right. It's the kind of accent that allows you to say "a wee bit" or "cheers" and not sound foolish.
I will save them for the Old Course, I told myself, as long as I can get into heaven next time.
