As we got into a car filled with brown McDonald’s bags and quarter-filled Coke bottles, my 17-year-old nephew suddenly turned all Scottie Scheffler on me. At the Open Championship this summer, the top-ranked golfer in the world had asked that question as he pondered why hitting, innings and racing were so important to him when they weren’t really what he valued most.
Only my nephew came from maybe even one more existential place, with perhaps just a hint of teenage fear of life after 19.
“Like, if I’m playing golf for fun and only playing golf for fun,” he thought, “what’s the point of playing?”
His anxiety was the reason for our trip: a golf college visit. He had worked hard. He claimed to have read it this website. What if they didn’t want it? What if golf was just golf?
“Because you’re going to get another shot,” I said.
He disagreed. I continued.
“Maybe you’ll be really great when you’re 20. Or 30. Or never. But I always think you have another shot. Bad car? Try to recover. Bad hole? There’s more. Bad round? Come back tomorrow. Maybe it all comes together. Maybe not. You are in control.”
That’s a good adult right there.
Or maybe I was full of divots.
Because not always take another shot. You are not always at the wheel.
Someone else may be driving.
Ironically, about 10 or so hours ago, the same thought had played out for me, as I saw a pair of headlights inches from my head.
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AT 10:30 THE NIGHT PREVIOUSLY, RIDESHARE WAS T-BONED AFTER A CAR BREAKED THE STOP. We were hit on the driver’s side, where both I and the driver were sitting. The car flipped onto its roof. We slipped about 25 meters. The car fell into a ditch before somehow returning to its tires.
Of course, you know the score. After all, I am writing this. The photo I took above. What else do you want to know?
are you ok
Yes, I am. I felt pain on the left side; turns out I broke a rib. My right ankle was bruised. My right leg feels numb. There was a cut on the top of the head. It oddly made me wonder what bone I’d choose to break if I was somehow forced to, and I went with ribs, so I guess that’s okay.
Did you joke about what happened?
I keep telling my wife that I wonder if the other car is okay after it hit me.
How is your wife after all this?
She is not sure about my head.
How is the driver? What about the other driver?
Well, at that time, everything is considered. The person who hit us needed an ambulance, but he or she appears to be OK.
Ambulance?
Yes, when I finally got out of our car, headlights were everywhere. A bystander likely called 911. After a brief search, I also found the audio of the police call. In the end there were two ambulances, two fire engines and five or six police cars, one of which ended up taking me to where I was staying. The officer and I actually talked a little golf.
Any random thoughts?
You have no idea.
Tell them.
My flight that night was delayed. Rideshare also took a different route than what I’m used to.
Any weird thoughts?
Want to hear about my seat belt?
Continue.
I couldn’t find the latch for it.
Oh no.
So I would let it go. I’ve done it before, silly. But as we left, I turned on the light on my phone, noticed it, took it out and hung it up.
Wow.
What should I listen to about my golf clubs?
For sure. Are they still in one piece?
They are. Perhaps you could connect a few dots as well. We lowered the right rear seat and placed sticks there vertically in the trunk. If they were on the left side, I probably would have been on the road when the car turned.
holy…
There’s more. The clubs were in a travel case with a hard cover, and the top prevented the rear passenger door from going in – and that was the only door that didn’t. I was able to get out; you never know how critical this is.
Unreal. What were those moments like, then, when the car stopped?
Furious. Our phones kept trying to call 911; the technology was impressive. I wondered if I was okay. I checked for blood. I checked if I could move. I asked the driver if he was okay. Surreal.
How was it influential?
I keep thinking about it, honestly.
What about?
The car lights are driving us in. Concussion on impact. The unknown. One second you’re looking down at your phone. During the next 15 years, you feel suspended and things become extremely basic. When will the car stop? What will happen along the way? As the car slid onto its roof and my head was inches from the pavement, I said something to myself.
What was that?
Not now. Not now. Please not now.
Without rest.
And it wasn’t.
How the writer’s last trip ended.
Nick Piastowski
AFTER THE POLICE CAR PICKED ME UP, I ate a Subway sandwich. My grandson got it for me. He knew I would come in later and be hungry.
About six hours later—I slept maybe two that night—we were on the road again. I was hurt. Sneezing is the worst. If you’re curious about what that feels like, grab a 7-iron, hand it to someone, tell them to swing it near their ribcage. But I was good enough to go. We stopped at McDonald’s. We visited the school. The night passed. It came back the next day. The day after that, the college golf coach called. He wanted my nephew to join the team. Hell yes.
He will continue to be a golfer of the capital. What’s the point? He answered his own question.
But…
He also takes shots, as I had told him somehow.
Like me after the accident.
So when they are there, take them because you never know where they will lead.
Or when they will leave.
Vigilant! Golf is a metaphor for life! Vigilant! Was it a little too much melodrama? Maybe. Let’s blame the pain meds.
But take the shots. Take them again, again and again.
And be thankful that you can take those pictures and that they can take you somewhere, even if it’s just in another shot.
;)
