Last fall I shattered my wrist in a fall from a tall ladder, the result of an activity so inane that you will not read the details of it here. The break required extensive surgery involving a titanium plate, screws, and many pins since they had to piece my radius back together like a jigsaw puzzle.
I’ve been a serious though minimally skilled golfer for over 50 years, during which time I’ve always had either a fade (when things were going well) or a banana-shaped slice (when they weren’t). Prior to surgery I kiddingly asked the orthopedic surgeon that since he was going to have to reconstruct the bones in my wrist, could he perhaps position the titanium plate so that I’d have a draw instead of a slice?
Well, as the saying goes Be careful what you wish for. Because whether he did screw the plate in on an angle or if something else changed drastically, ever since I started playing again after a 3-month recovery period, damned if I haven’t traded a slice for a draw! A draw at best; far too often, a banana-shaped hook. The result is that I’m still playing far too many second shots “from the shade”, as they say, except that now I’m in the woods to the left of the fairway, not the right. I’m now seeing parts of courses I never knew existed, including interesting rock formations, previously undiscovered (by me, at least) bodies of water, and in one woodsy expedition resulting from a towering hook, the place Where Elephants Go to Die . The only upside is that the several other members of my golfing family are also hookers (remember we’re talking golf here), so I get to spend more quality time with them between tee and green. However, “quality time” is perhaps too generous a term when the whole group is poking around in the underbrush searching for their errant shots.