The Last Shot of the Day

 By Gaurav Parab

Yesterday was one of those nights. As soon as your exhausted body hits bed, you expect to be knocked out cold. It started well. I drifted off sensing that deep sleep is a few moments away. No need of ear plugs. No need of white noise or calming music. No need to call the police on the noisy neighbors.

But a piece fell out of place. Sleep, turned into a star on a cloudy night. Came, disappeared, promised guiding light and then broke promise. You seek consistency of state. You are denied consistency of state. The body is done and aches for release. But the mind is an ice cube cruelly taken out, and then put in the refrigerator just as it starts to melt. Blur. Clarity. Blur. Clarity. And plenty of agitation like atoms subjected to heat.

I did not sleep well last night.

It is the image from the last tee. The residual dew glinting off the fairway. Mocking water hazard in front. Ball setup low, and body relaxed. I look down. 9 iron, neutral grip. Keep your head down, I hear my dead father whisper. Keep your head down he repeats, as I drill my heels into the ground. I will make him proud.
I am awake. The ceiling fan creaks more than usual. A watchman says something to another below my balcony. A motorcycle engine goes off like the crack of a rifle a hundred yards away. Teenagers. About time they start cycling to their parties. Burn some carbs, let me sleep.
My eyes close. Ball sits tight on the tee; I look down again. Neutral grip. Keep your head down. Pink Color Tee. Pink color tee? Right. I bought it for it is easy to spot. 120 yards. Keep your head down throughout the swing. Yes father. I got this.
My eyes open and look at the ceiling. A thin trail of sweat forms somewhere above my ear, snakes around its rim and then goes down the side of my neck. The electricity has gone off. The fan creaks louder in desperation, and the blades sigh before movement stops.
Ball set up; I look down. My father’s ghost has gone for a smoke. So, I remind myself to keep my head down. I practice my back swing. A 3/4ths punch won’t do. I glance up to the pin in the distance. I practice a full swing. I block out the water hazard. I shuffle an inch to address the ball again. I swing.
The feedback of club face crashing into golf ball softly runs along the shaft through my palms. My hands relay the message to that mischievous part of human brain that registers a good sporting outcome. Sweet spot. Effortless. Ping. A plan executed perfectly.
I kept the promise. I resisted the temptation to look up and follow the flight. The ball must be soaring now, about to reach its apex. But a man cannot resist forever. My eyes move upwards, followed by my head. I should not have looked up.
Jodie Foster. They should have sent a poet. A dot in the horizon blurs into a smaller point, before turning into a flash of white striking the green. The first bounce is soft like rear wheels on a jet liner tentatively skimming tarmac. The second softer. It rolls as I hold my pose in case someone watches. It rolls. My god it rolls. The club is behind me. My back leg remains raised on my toe. 
I should not have looked up. I should not have put my eyes on that thing of beauty.
Agitation.
My head plays the shot on the way home on loop. I take a practice swing in the elevator. Lunch. Dinner. On work calls. The rising arrow head on the PowerPoint is my soaring golf ball. Everyone on the video call is on mute, and I hear is the ping. All I hear is that ping, and all I feel is the delightful shockwave travelling through my hands. I look at my hands. I get it now. I get why those girls in the Mills & Boonses or whatever they were called fall for a guy that kisses their hand.
That impact late morning kissed my hand and now I am in love.
I am awake. Why did I hit that perfect shot on the last hole? What good is an experience that cannot be immediately repeated? I should have just walked away and not looked up. Left the damn thing on the green. I need to unsee. I need to hit a golf ball again. Right now.
I am up. I don’t take the elevator. What if the power goes out and I am stuck forever with the unfulfilled dream of hitting a ball like that again? I tumble down the stairs, gun the car engine. Piston moves. Fuel air mixture compresses. Ignition. Combustion. Boom. I rocket towards the course with the squealing of tires and pushing aside of gravel.
First Tee. I know how it works. I know the formula. Neutral grip, head down, let your hips do all the work. It will sail before landing near the pin. It will…I swing. Clank. Nail hitting blackboard. Rear bumper hitting parking wall. The shaft vibrates. The ball goes like an arrow aimed at the ground. The trees, the sand and the birds laugh in synch like a musical.
I smile. I pick my tee. Hopefully, this bad from persists and I hit something as terrible as this on the last tee today. For I really need to sleep tonight.
#thatwriterfromindia #golf #pgatour