Golf is like poetry — easier to dabble in but difficult to master. Whenever, the break is longish, getting the rhythm back becomes a task. After having been out of touch for nearly six months, I resumed the practice a month ago.
In the corner of the police stadium, we have a small green. For longer shots, one can hit from one end of the stadium to the other, which is about two hundred metres. That’s about the longest I can hit by my driver (1 wood). Only once in a while, my shot flies out of the stadium and puffs my chest.
Among the staff that looks after the maintenance of the stadium is a police constable who is nearing forty. He must have been a sportsman when he was young. I can say that because though golf is a strictly ‘officer sport’, in police, he has learnt a thing or two about its technique watching others practice.
He knows nearly correctly where the player’s stance, swing or finish needs improvement. He rarely offers unsolicited advice but when asked he gives it honestly. And to get his appreciation, not only should the result be good but also the technique be correct.
On resuming practice, I decided to take his help. After watching a few shots, he pointed out the faults — left hand wasn’t straight, the back swing too long, body moved more than necessary and there was a hurriedness to finish the swing. But I improved fast. Not because I practiced harder but because I was open to his suggestions, which were never more than a hint.
That morning was special. After I had hit a series of nearly perfect shots, he gave his seal of approval. Feeling light I put the clubs aside and sat down for a while. Now that I was free of myself, I became aware of my trainer.
I suddenly realised what I had barely noticed earlier — an ever-melancholic expression that he wore on his face.
Unhappy marriage perhaps, I thought and asked, “How are your wife and children?” He told me they were good and added that he had two school-going children and his wife supplemented the family income by doing embroidery work.
Apparently he was also satisfied that his old parents lived with him. “Then, why do you look so sad all the time?” He didn’t say anything, just looked skyward. Obviously, he didn’t wish to burden me with his problems. But on my persistence he opened up. He told me his brother-in-law had met with untimely death, leaving behind his widowed sister and four children. They were now under his care.
“Don’t you have a brother?” I asked.
“My brother also died three years ago”, he said.
“Who looks after his wife? Did he have any child?” “They are with me, my sister-in-law and her two children.” “Oh”, I said. The poor fellow had to look after a family of fourteen. “There must be discords in the family from time to time?” “No sir, we live in harmony”, he said.
“That’s good!” My acknowledgement made him aware of one precious thing in his life. “Now let me see how you hit the ball”, I said.
He placed the ball on the tee and swung the driver. I should have clicked his spontaneous smile as he watched the ball flying out of the stadium.
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