This happens every few family get togethers, usually in my brother in law Dave’s backyard, and it’s fantastic in its subtle variety and fundamental consistency.

Dave, must, at some point, peer out of window that opens into his backyard.

He sees me and his son Andy, marking out a shot. There’s a (real) golf ball on the ground and a 60 degree sand wedge on the scene.

A cold chill slides down Dave’s spine…

Andy and I can play, so there’s little chance of breakage.

Plus, we’re hitting a doable shot.

“I’m thinking just short of the bird feeder. If it clears the lawn border it’s OB.”

“Got it, I’m in…you go first.”

“Gotta give me a tough lie.”

Andy settles in after putting the ball in a low spot of turf. It’s not an easy lie, but it’s not impossible either.

He takes the 60 back and catches the ball just a little heavy. But, the slight miss-hit works great; the ball hits short and bounds toward the target, stopping within three feet.

I shake my head. “I can’t beat that one.”

The wedge is unfamiliar in my hand and the lie is dicey. I’m not sure where to land the ball and how it might release. I, too, catch the big ball before the little ball but my shot lands at the target line before hopping over the OB boundary.

“Tough bounce,” says Andy.

Now we move the target further across the yard and we leave ourselves a tricky side hill lie from inconsistent turf.

We both walk forward to get a look at what the landing area around the hole looks like, trying to gauge whether the ball will release or hold.

Andy goes first. He makes better contact this time, too good in fact, and the ball runs well past the hole.

Ah, an opening!

I settle in, now getting a feel for the 60 and the shot. I catch the ball perfectly. It hits the up slope and grabs four feet right of the target.

Even!

Andy looks across the yard.

“OK, big boy shot. Mandatory flop and it has to stop short of the OB and closest to the line of the bird feeder.”

“Yeow, tough one…show me, stud.”

Andy perches his ball in the fluffy grass until the lie looks like the type that will allow an open-faced wedge to slide under the ball and loft it into the air before it lands with all of the forward momentum of a sand bag tossed by a four-year old girl.

He takes a huge swing. If he were to hit the ball flush it would fly well over ninety yards but here Andy was trying to make the ball fly no further than thirty feet.

He strikes the ball with near perfection. There’s no sound of impact, just the slicing of the club through the damp spring grass and the subtle foof sound of the grass being caught between the club face and the ball.

The ball stops three feet from the bird feeder!

I think to myself, you can hit this shot, but I know I can’t or at least I won’t.

I decide to up the difficulty rating by giving myself a thin lie, the kind of lie poor players fear…the kind of lie that demands perfect impact. I open the face of the 60 and take a decent swing, but I lacked the courage to bring the club into the ball with the kind of authority that would cause the ball to travel a lesser distance than many people would believe possible. The result is a semi-flop that never gains full elevation and thuds harmlessly into the ivy.

“You da man, Andis.”

About then, Tom and John emerge from the slider. They’re ready to join the game and me and Andy encourage them to take a turn at the shots.

This gets Dave’s attention immediately. In his yard were twin retirees holding golf clubs but what he saw was a pair of identical seven year olds playing with matches surrounded by dry grass. He had to make his move quickly.

He came into the yard smiling the smile of a man who could imagine a battle scarred Titleist driven through a window or into the forehead of the retired municipal court judge who lived next door and likes to enjoy his back porch swing on just this kind of perfect spring afternoon.

“John can hit this shot,” Tom said confidently.

John stepped forward, examining the wedge and the balls for signs of imperfection that could spoil the expert precision of the coming shot.

He raked the ball into a clean lie and swung.

It was a toed and screeched hard right, catching the edge of the swimming pool. The old ball yawned into a high arching flight before splashing into the middle of the pool.

John was undeterred. “Bad lie,” he muttered.

Dave’s desperation crept into his voice. “Hey, let’s try that shot again but let’s use one of these old tennis balls!” He stood there while his dog leaped excitedly in anticipation of a rousing game of fetch.

By then, John was back over the ball. He had never heard a word Dave said.

Andy and I wisely stepped to the rear. Barring the most amazing bounce, we were determined not to wind up as collateral damage in Dave’s backyard.

John was taking dead aim now. Harvey Penick would be proud.

Andy couldn’t resist. “Dad, your BBQ is a goner!”

As Dave held up the tennis ball John lashed at the ball and caught it squarely. The ball whistled past the bird feeder and missed the glimmering BBQ by mere inches.

Now Tom and John are taking turns taking practice swings while the family dog darts between them. Only their feckless swings and amazing canine reflexes prevent disaster.

“Now it’s my turn,” says Tom.

Andy and I step back another step trying to triangulate the path a cruel but perfect mishit could create. We call for the dog and hold on to her as Tom takes his shot.

The club face is shut at address and there can only be one result. The ball is bladed and hurtles toward the chain link fence. It nails the fence post dead center and streaks back at the hapless Tom, catching him right on the shin.

“Nice,” says John.

No one goes to see if Tom is OK but he limps back toward the ping pong table under his own power so all must be well.

But now the juices are flowing now; blood has been shed.

Andy looks at me and says, “One full swing…8-iron?”

I nod. “Do it!”

Seconds later Andy’s got his father’s 8-iron and is it aiming up the steep hill behind his parent’s house.

“Think you can get to the ridge?”

“Don’t think so…”

John’s got his phone out by now and is wondering how far the nearest houses are.

No way he’s worried… he’s just curious.

Dave’s calmer now. He knows Andy won’t hit it sideways and he knows the houses past the ridge line are well out of reach.

Still, though, there’s a glorious moment of dread and fascination as all of Andy’s six foot three inch frame lashes at the ball.

The ball is pured and it soars on the penetrating flight only a fine player can create.

It streaks effortlessly toward the ridge line as we all wonder where it will land.

 

 

It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything about optimism. My golf game has been marginal so it’s been hard to generate much optimism about that.

That, however, is another story.

I’ll just say it: My oldest friend is a naysayer who never says nay, at least not straight out.

It’s sad…

The odd thing is that even though I’ve known the guy for something like five decades I would have never described him as typically pessimistic, until now. In fact, I’m the cynical one. I’m the one who sees corruption everywhere. I’m the one who is always suspect of motives. I’m the one who views all bureaucracies as evil.

But, that’s yet another story.

My old friend is a kinder and gentler kind of naysayer. I’m going to outline but three examples and you’ll have to take my word that these are among the more mild examples I could discuss. The really juicy examples are simply too personal to blog about.

Internet anonymity only goes so far.

Nay Say #1

I’ll start with the most minor example. I was telling my buddy about a young administrative assistant who worked with me last year. He’s a real nice guy and very bright. That said, he’s kind of stuck in his 20s with not a lot of big ideas about what to do with his life. Sound familiar? Anyway, the kid came to me one day with this idea to blog about The Internet of Things. I thought this was dandy idea. This is a kid who aspires to write, but doesn’t actually write all that much. A blog would give him an easy way to focus his energy on something and to develop his own writer’s voice.

Great, right?

Here’s what my buddy said. “Really…what qualifies him to write about that?”

At the time I didn’t make it much of the issue other than to point out that the whole purpose of a blog was simply to express opinion. That’s all the kid wanted to do; express an opinion about something that was interesting to him. The idea struck me as totally harmless and maybe helpful to the kid, if no one else.

Nay Say #2

I’ve been writing and editing since I was in high school though neither has ever been my profession. Still since I hit my 40s I’ve taken my work more seriously. I’ve edited one golf book, written one of my own and co-written another much longer book. In between I’ve written more than a hundred essays and reviews and published and vanity-printed a short story. One day I told my buddy that I was writing a golf novella. He expressed what can only be described as mildly good-humored interest before saying cheerfully, “Hey, you should take a creative writing class at UCLA!”

Happily, I chose not to render him unconscious, though it was my genuine first impulse. I thought to myself, I’m a 54-year-old writer who has to date achieved little in the way of sales or financial reward. But, at the same time I have also never spoken to my friend about any creative struggles I’ve had with my work. On the contrary, I’ve only told him about my enthusiasm for my projects and even about my wish that we might work on something together. So what justified his take that I should go to school where someone who knew what they were doing could tell me how little I knew about what I was doing?

Nay Say #3

One day I was telling my buddy about another friend of mine who builds spec houses for a living. I showed him a photo of one of the beautiful mountain houses my friend is building and mentioned offhand that he designs his homes himself. My buddy’s comeback? “Oh, is a licensed architect?” This time I did bristle a bit. I told him that he wasn’t and who gives a crap? This guy has designed and built scores of high end custom spec houses and has been a residential developer for the last three decades. This was the point where the my friends’ particular brand of nay saying finally started to get the better of me.

The kid at work who wants to blog about The Internet of Things wouldn’t give a shit about what my buddy thinks about his qualifications. I care even less about the fact that my friend thinks it would be a grand idea for me to take a creative writing course. And, my friend who builds spec houses would surely laugh at the question about whether he’s a licensed architect or not.

The simple and common reason we don’t give a collective shit is because we’re too busy giving a bigger shit about our projects. Our only regret is that we don’t have enough time to give our projects the attention we think they deserve.

What all of this really got me around to thinking about is whether being around even a gentle nay sayers helps or hurts? In the case of the guy I’m writing about I can say with complete assurance that his nay saying is far more damaging to him than it is to anyone else. Still, it does make me wonder if what he says could have a creeping negative effect on my confidence.

Let’s face it; even the most accomplished writers can be subject to the occasional bout of a fragile ego. Writers like me do all of their work confident in the fact that no one will ever read their work and if by some cosmic accident anyone ever did they would certain to hate it. With that comforting thought in mind, maybe it’s not so great to have that kind of negative buzz in your head when you’re taking on a challenging project.

I love my nay saying friend, but I hate the thoughtless and lazy negativity that seems to so wholly possess him.

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

This quote from TR is taped to the side of my monitor. It’s taped there for at least three reasons: First, it makes me nostalgic for a time, a time before my own, when a president would and could speak publicly with such erudition and sophistication. Second, it encourages me to temper (occasionally) my criticisms of the work of others. Third, it emboldens me to stay in the arena and not to allow myself to be content with being a mere spectator.

I’m quite certain my friend has heard or read this quote. And, I’m sure that in his heart he doesn’t see himself as a relentless nay sayer, yet he is. The challenge for my friend and for me, and for everyone, is to rip those great words from the page and bring them out into the real world in the form of action.

I know what my friend will say to all of this: I will consider it.

I will consider it; the feeble mantra of the nay sayer.