It's Only A Game

We relax, take it easy, keep cool, and hang loose,
Our machine's running smoothly, and greased as a goose.
The ball then flies far, and goes straight and so true,
Not reaching those parts, which one later would rue.

There's no need for lessons, or one's head to fill,
With techniques and theory, or swing thoughts or drill.
What need for check lists, or video analysis,
We'll only wind up, being stiff with paralysis.

But alas, things go wrong, and we've no idea why,
Free advice then pours in, as to what's gone awry.
The seeds are then sown, and our mind is in doubt,
Little demons have tempted, new tips to try out.

Sometimes they work, but more often will not,
It all goes to pieces, our mind's in a knot.
We devour magazines, and scour books old and new,
Or we go to the pro, or consult our guru.

He, first checks the grip, and one's aim and one's stance.
A sequence of ritual, a tribal type dance.
There's interlock, baseball and Vardon to choose,
And when these are no good, there's cack-handed to use.

One's posture he sets, that the spine angles' right,
And the chin is stuck out, and not hidden from sight.
The ball he positions, towards the front heel,
One's weight distributed, good balance should feel.

Just imagine we're stood, and are having a pee,
That's near about where, that our hands have to be.
The palms of the hands, and the clubhead are square,
Squatting down like a duck, with a big derriere.

He sees that our feet, and our shoulders and knees,
Are lined at the target, one eighty degrees.
The shaft and left arm, and left hand are in line,
Whilst the right side, resembles a K type design.

The very first move, is a waggle or press,
Which gets the swing going, with minimal stress.
We take back the club, in a smooth one piece move,
Keeping it low, in a twelve inch long groove.

The hips pivot round, and right elbow tucks in,
The left shoulder turns, and drops under the chin.
Weight shifts to the right, and the wrists start to cock,
The coiled spring of the waist, is wound up like a clock.

Slow starts the downswing, increases and swells,
Pulling the club down, and tolling the bells.
Weight swivels left, with the shoulders and hips,
Both wrists are snapped, as in cracking of whips.

The head remains still, when ball impact is made,
The flight shape we pray, will be straight, - draw or fade.
Extending both arms, with the follow through low,
Then facing the target, on point of right toe.

But, swing faults run rampant, a deadly disease,
From a dose of head ups, to stiff knees that can seize.
There's contageous shanking, and piccolo grips,
And neurotic choking, with infectious yips.

We have hooking and heaving, and hips not rotating.
And flinching and quitting, and wrists not pronating.
There are hands that are lazy, and hips that are blocking,
And casts from the top, and bent wrists early cocking.

There are flying right elbows, and drives being duffed,
And left elbows bending, and chips being fluffed.
There are outside to in swings, and reversing pivots,
And hitting behind swings, with deeply dug divots.

There's swaying and spraying, and skying and skulling,
And heeling and toeing, and pushing and pulling.
And slapping and scuffing and thinning and topping,
And cutting and spooning, and slicing and chopping.

But these problems of golf, we don't lastingly solve,
They ebb and they flow, as the tide must revolve.
So how can we cure then, these ailments so chronic,
What we need are some thoughts, for an antidote tonic.

The key, is to convert, that smooth practise swing.
To that which we use, with a ball, the real thing.
The difference between these, is all in the mind.
Breeding muscular tension, we've got to unwind.

If after a bad shot, our mind has switched negative,
Let's dwell for a moment, the devil's alternative.
What a bonus of life, every game that we play,
Let's give thanks for our luck, as we pass by each day.

'Twas Kipling that said:- "We should treat them the same,"
"Those Two imposters," we meet with each game.
"Disaster and triumph," - a win or defeat,
A smile with firm handshake, each one we should greet.

So, next time we're hitting, that stationary ball,
Remember the maxim, so true for us all.
Think, - just before mouthing, that four letter word,
"It's only a game man, - let's not be absurd!"