On a beautiful Sunday afternoon in January, in sunny Florida, I climb aboard a golf cart with my cousin Barb for my first-ever golf lesson. I'm decked out in all new clothes: black Dockers, black T-shirt, a dark red button-down long-sleeved shirt, even a new belt. On my feet: new black leather tennis shoes. I'm doing my best to look like Tiger Woods in the final round of the Masters. As for my ability to actually play? Parkinson's disease and golf, I think. What could go wrong?
Barb, who will be my guide for the day, is a true athlete. She learned the game from her father, a duffer with a keen eye for talent on the links. She's also a born teacher and coach—just what I, a 52-year-old with hand tremors and an odd walk, need.
As we approach the first tee, I begin to wonder if I've made a mistake. I never wanted to play golf, at least not until my mid-30s, when Woods burst onto the scene. Like so many others, I was amazed by how far he took the game—and by his Zen-like approach. I was always interested in Zen Buddhism and had studied it enough to realize that Woods was not a Zen master—he showed too much emotion on the course for that—but he was pretty darn close. I wanted a glimpse into his world.
But as Barb begins telling me how to stand, address the ball, and swing, I feel nothing approaching Zen, not even the proverbial "beginner's mind." My problem? I'm thinking too much. I'm standing on a golf course, with witnesses, about to smack a ball toward a tiny hole 150 yards away. I feel like a red-and-black flamingo about to topple into an alligator-infested swamp. But there's no going back now. I've invested too much in my clothes.
I take a deep breath and swing—and actually hit the ball. It even goes in the right direction, about 16 feet in front of me. I count that as one tiny victory.
It proves to be the first of several victories that day.
Barb is patient, correcting my mistakes and praising my small successes. Walking up the fairways feels good in the warm afternoon sun. I loosen up more than I have in a long time and begin to understand my body a little better.
Sure, I'm losing the small muscle control I need to write in longhand or play a musical instrument, but my larger muscle control is still working within the normal range. More importantly, as I meander along the links, smacking that little white ball, I begin to see how the mindset that helps athletes keep their cool under pressure applies equally to my disease: Let go of the past, compete with yourself, and do the best you can in the present, because that's all you really have.
On the seventh tee, that lesson hits home. My swing feels "right," and I hear the sound of a perfectly hit ball. I marvel as it sails higher than any I have struck before. It then takes a few hops and rolls sweetly into the middle of the fairway. I suddenly love golf. "There ya go," yells Barb. "Now you're getting it."
As I watch the ball settle, I recall a line from the movie Tin Cup. A washed-up golf pro says, "A tuning fork goes off in your loins, such a pure feeling is the well-struck golf shot." I can't say I feel a tuning fork (or anything else, for that matter) in my loins, but at my physical core there is a twinge, an awakening, which says, "More, please."
With new confidence, I stroll up to the ball, take aim at the flag, and swing. The ball plops right into a sand trap. Ah, such is life with Parkinson's disease.
Matthew C. Wolfe lives in Huntington, WV, where he teaches English at Ohio University and religious studies at Marshall University. He enjoys travel, music, art, and spending time with his daughter, Katherine. When time permits, he hopes to get back on the green.
