The Golf Lesson

Back in my middle school days, when we used to call Physical Education, Gym Class, we also had lessons on a multitude of skills for those who weren't athletically inclined, and one of those, to the chagrin of my gym teacher, was golf.

Each of us, in our gym rompers, outfits more like giant, ill-fitting royal blue onesies with elastic thigh bands so tight they almost qualified as tourniquets, was given a golf club and a ball and told to use self-control until the teacher could give instructions.

That lasted about 3.2 seconds. It took another twenty minutes for everyone to retrieve their rampant golf balls before the real lesson could begin.

"Okay, everyone!" my teacher bellowed to the gaggle of 11-and 12-year-old chaos critters. "Bend at the waist slightly, and hold the club like this-" demonstrating a V-shape with his arms on the club, "Arms straight, and don't bend your elbows."

Easier for him and all the other boys, but for some of the early blossoming young ladies (including, or perhaps especially, myself) were having trouble. I could either bend my elbows or stop breathing because straight arms sent my bosom into my neck, not only blocking my view of the ball, but constricting my breathing as the compressed womanly blossoms impaired my esophagus from its proper functioning.

My teacher, a mostly balding, very tall man with kind blue eyes, made his rounds, clipboard in hand, correcting and instructing my classmates into proper form — until he got to me, the most endowed girl in the group.

I swear I could see the man utter a small sigh, thinking I didn't see it. I was always his challenge student because I'd never been able to do pull-ups or get more than two feet off the ground on the rope climb.

"No, your elbows are bent," he said. "Do it like this," and demonstrated again. He noticed me turning a little blue and tried to hide a chuckle. "No, you have to lay your arms on top of your chest."

On top of my chest? I gave him an odd look. "Tell me you're kidding," I said. 

He told me to try. I gave him a little smirk and did exactly as he instructed. My arms were straight, my waist was in perfect form;  however, the golf club was at least a foot off the floor. Unless I bent in half, there was no way that club would hit a ball, unless I used a railroad spike as a tee. We both looked at the club, then at each other. I shrugged, looking sheepish, and he shook his head, trying not to grin.

"You get a C," he said, marking it down on his clipboard before walking away.

He always encouraged me to try things, but after a while, we had an understanding. I had muscle, but it was short bursts of strength-muscle, not endurance-muscle. And he learned I had a place in the gym world after all — but that's a story for another day.