Sunday, January 04, 2004

Riley is two and he's got a pro golf swing. He hands me a golf club and pushes me toward the ball. "Hey lady, it's your turn." The club is blue plastic and about two feet tall; I'm holding it with one hand because I feel silly bending all the way down. "No, like this." He pushes me out of the way so that he can demonstrate. He positions both of his hands in a way that I vaguely remember seeing at a miniature golf course many years ago, then lines up with the ball and swings, knocking it across the yard. His follow through is flawless; he holds the club behind his back in exactly the way it looks on tv. I can't help but be impressed, immediately convinced that the kid's a prodigy, although I still have trouble believing in golf prodegies. I have trouble believing in golf. Nevertheless, I'm pretty sure he could teach me a thing or two about a lot more than golf.
But there's no time to really think it through because it's really my turn. I hold the club just like he showed me and line up my shot but I'm not bending over far enough and I miss the ball. Riley pats me on the back. "It's ok, lady, you do ok."

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