Chasing That Other Emily

I should have known it would all end painfully.

Monday was Ian’s birthday – my little baby brother, eighteen whole years old (well, technically I kind of stopped thinking of him quite so diminutively when his last growth spurt put him at 6’5”). He decided to spend the week in Lake City and set out Sunday night with Ali so as to avoid driving on his birthday; last year, the family was on the road for fourteen hours on June sixth heading to Boston for my graduation, and somehow he didn’t enjoy that so much. I don’t know why, personally…

Michal and I joined the rest of the crew in LC (Pat, Ali, Ian, and friends Mallory and Christopher) early in the evening on Monday. We arrived, brandishing wrapped presents (my handiwork) and frosted cake (Michal’s), just as everyone was preparing for an outing to the driving range at The Jewel, the golf course development with which my dad has been working since 1995. Now, Ali was on the high school golf team, and Pat has spent countless hours out on the links since that’s just part of what businessmen do. Mal and Chris, both employed at the course, each have a set of clubs (Mal inherited hers when her younger brother outgrew them; Chris is newly obsessed with the sport). But Ian doesn’t golf. And Michal doesn’t golf. And, until Monday, Emily didn’t golf. But oh, that was about to change.

Off to the driving range we went, decked out less than appropriately in tank tops, cropped pants, and sneakers (the womenfolk, anyway; the boys sported the appropriate collared shirts). Mal, who has taken one golf lesson in her life, set out to show me exactly what this sport was all about.

“Okay, so stand like this, with your knees bent and your bum kind of sticking out. And have your back straight, but at an angle toward the ball. Line up your club so that the ball is centered. Oh, wait, I should probably tell you how to hold the club first. The grip is kind of like the one you use on a tennis racket, at least in orientation. Hold it in your left hand first, and interlace your left index finger and your right pinky.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, that’s just how golfers do it.”

I am proud to report that I am now exceedingly good at the grip. The rest of it, though… well,

*whiff*

“Bend your knees more. Keep them bent, and swivel your hips. It’s like Elvis.”

*divot*

“Better… Keep your left arm straight for the first part of your backswing, and don't let the line break at the wrists so early.”

*whiff*

"You forgot the knees!"

I had one decent shot - at least, one shot that actually went up in the air and covered more ground than the rest of mine combined. Of course, I was using some large-ish, wedge-ish club (the name eludes me), which is apparently not commonly employed on the driving range. "It'll build confidence," declared Chris. And I guess it worked; I did, after all, have one decent shot.

But oh. The pain. At 4.30 on Tuesday morning, I woke up in my dad's stiflingly hot living room, and stumbled through the darkness afforded by pre-sunrise and nearsightedness to switch on the ceiling fan. As I flopped back onto the couch, a twinge shot through my right shoulder, and the part of my mind remaining conscious determined, "Oh, yeah, foreign motion, new muscle movement, this should be fun. But, I mean, you played tennis with Ali last week, and that should be similar, right? It'll be fiiiiiiine..."

Worst. Case. Of. Golfer's. Shoulder. Ever. EVER. It still aches right now. I spend a third of my time trying to ignore it, a third attempting to massage it, and a third searching for new and innovative positions in which to prop it so as not to force any muscle activity whatsoever.

This brings me to my point. I figure that the only way I can avoid undergoing such a painful adjustment ever again is to become an avid golfer. If you Google my name (not that I have, or anything...), most of the entries refer to British golfing star E.L., and if I'm looking to escape pain and agony, I might as well give her a run for her money while I'm at it. Sooo... anyone for a tee time?