Gemotions

The familiar weight of the golf club felt heavy in his hands. He stood on the tee box, the green fairway stretching before him. He’d always been the power hitter, launching the ball long and far. Now, he was asked to work on his short game.

He envisioned the smooth swings, the long graceful arc of the ball. He had always taken his skill for granted. Now, he was being asked to master the art of finesse.

He imagined the touch, the control, the precision required to putt and chip. He practiced it every morning, but it still felt alien. He felt himself staring at the ground, focusing on the details of the grass. He was no longer trying to impress the crowd.

He took a practice swing, the club whistling through the air. He would have to learn patience. He didn’t want to. He looked down at the club. The feeling was a strange, and unexpected, form of humility.