The critical opening phrase of this poem will always be the grip.
Which the hands unite to form a single unit by the simple overlap
of the little finger. Lowly and slowly the clubhead is led back.
Pulled into position not by the hands, but by the body which turns
away from the target shifting weight to the right side without
shifting balance. Tempo is everything; perfection unobtainable as
the body coils down at the top of the swing. Theres a slight
hesitation. A little nod to the gods. That he is fallible. That
perfection is unobtainable. And now the weight begins shifting back
to the left pulled by the powers inside the earth. It’s alive, this
swing! A living sculpture and down through contact, always down,
striking the ball crisply, with character. A tuning fork goes off
in your heart and your balls. Such a pure feeling is the well-
struck golf shot. Now the follow through to finish. Always on line.
The reverse C of the Golden Bear! The steel workers’ power and brawn
of Carl Sandburg’s. Arnold Palmer!
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
The Notorious B.I.G.: Big Poppa
(via stonerparty)
