Today I was fortunate enough to play a round of golf with a friend. It was slow going, being 75* and sunny in January it seemed everyone in town was looking to play. But we did, and I hit the ball well. That's several rounds now since I discovered what was the matter with my swing and began to do otherwise. (Note: there's nothing like a swing that is more technically sound but doesn't produce. I looked great on video, but ball flight was awful). Hitting it well doesn't always translate to score, and my lack of practice translates rapidly to a rusty short game. But certainly after a frustrating couple of years of hitting the ball poorly, I'm ready to stripe a few again, even if the rest of my game has fallen off at the most inopportune of times.
My drives on 17 and 18 (the wind had finally died to near zero) were both things of beauty, at least for a golfer. 17 plays 420 yards, I had 125 left to a frontish pin, so 285 total. 18 plays 515, I had 210 left to a solidly middle pin - 305 for a final tally. Both were crushed and dead center of the clubface. I thought the one on 17 was about as good as it gets, but the shot on 18 was just that little bit sweeter. I love the feel of true flushed and centered contact shooting up the forearms. Ended up closing out with a three foot birdie putt that dropped. Yay.
Likewise, I am happy that my Lora is "on the way back". She finished the composition of a poem today, and read it to me when I returned. She has such a special talent for poetry, and I'm grateful she feels the desire to be about those things again. Life is good.
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