Learning Golf - Again . . .

In the week ends, my family went to Masterton as a short holiday because of the Queen's Birthday. Our hotel had a Golf Driving Range, where you can just hit a ball onto an obtuse field. When I was 7, my Dad had enrolled me and my brother on a Children's Golf Programme. Back then I didn't want to play any sports, especially the physically involved, for example, rugby. I also thought that golf was more of a hobby then a sport, for retired men. But still, I was already enrolled, so every Saturday, my Dad would drive me, and my brother, to Lower Hutt, to a golf club.

And to add to my agony, it was winter. Yes, it was winter, and I would be left out on a green, white frosted field for an hour and a half, with some other kids, that hated the place as much as I did.

At first we had learned to putt the ball in the direction of the hole, which was much more boring then it sounds. Then we moved onto to actually hitting the ball so it would soar through the air. For a while I actually enjoyed just hitting the ball, until the cold finally came into effect. It was freezing, I had looked around to see the others clutching their shoulders as a feeble attempt to get warm. After a few more minutes of excruciating cold, it was over. But I still had to endure this pain for a whole term.

So that's my story of my first golf experience. And it certainly didn't help that I was at a driving range, watching my Dad smash the ball past the 150ft mark. When I tried, I wasn't really hitting the ball, not because I kept on missing but because my Dad had me practicing my posture, like bending my knees and straight arms, feet flat and more. There was a rubber ball holder that jutted out of the ground, in fact there were several of them that formed a circle, probably so you could hit the ball in different directions.

Finally, after correcting my postures and stuff, I could hit the ball. At first I did keep on missing the ball, but then I could hit the ball, and it would fly to the 50ft mark. Not that glamorous, but at least I could hit it.

Then something, unexpected happened, I smashed the ball, and I watched it fly through the air, past the 50ft, then 100, then 150ft! My Dad had stared in disbelief, I stared at my hands which were numb from gripping the golf club, called a 'hammer' which helped you hit hard, really tight. And then I could repeat it again and again, I saw other kids struggling, there grandpa's at their backs glaring.

And that's is my story of how I learned how to play golf, the second time,