CHARLESTON, W.Va. -- It was on one of those perfect summer days a month or so back that my boyfriend suggested we run to the driving range and hit a bucket of balls.
That bucket of balls opened a big can of worms.
Although I was raised by a golfer and played a bit growing up, the only times I've played as an adult have been on courses with windmills and the occasional dinosaur.
I have to give Didier credit. He managed me just right. Pulled out that one phrase I've longed to hear all my life with regard to me and a sport. He said, "You're a natural."
During my school years, the only organized team sport I played was track. I was once told that my stride was that of a "born runner" and I latched on. Thought I'd found my sport. Yet no matter how much I ran, I could never manage the hurdles.
The simple act of running and jumping overwhelmed the substandard staff of my Cerebral Center for Coordination Control. They were forever yanking a lever too early, causing me to land on top of the hurdle, or they'd pull it too late and I'd go somersaulting to the ground with my ankles tangled around the upper bar.
So, considering that I couldn't navigate something as simple as running in a circle while occasionally jumping, I abandoned the idea of golf before I ever picked up a club. Golf required far too much coordination. You had to bend your arm for a while, keep it straight for a while. Keep your head down. Knees bent. Back straight. Not too much of a lean. Feet so far apart for certain clubs, closer together for others.
It seemed silly for someone like me to consider.
Still, if there's one thing in this life to which I've grown accustomed, it's looking like an idiot, so when Didier suggested the driving range, I figured, what the heck. It wasn't like jumping out of a plane or swooshing down a frozen mountain with sticks strapped to my feet. The only danger would be to those around me and, as it turned out, they would've had to stand awfully close even then to get hurt.