You Keep Your Eye on the Ball

By Gord Paynter

Forty-eight - an age? Forty-eight, a failing grade? Or forty-eight, the projected value of our Canadian dollar? Possibly. But, in this case, forty-eight refers to my best score for nine holes of golf.

Granted, it’s no Tiger Woods. But pretty damn good for a 43-year-old passionate about the game and playing without his sight.

At 22, I began losing my eyesight as a result of complications from diabetes. With that came a loss of drive, desire and dreams - dreams of career, of sports and, in particular, golf.

The acceptance of my new blind state was slow, but eventually I found myself back doing chores and participating in games and events. I was not aware that I was growing and accepting my environment.

One day I tagged along with a friend to a driving range. Smack! His driver connected with the little white ball. The sound stirred feelings deep within me.

My friend must have sensed my keenness, because he asked me if I wanted to hit a few. We fidgeted about till he had me all lined up, club squared behind the ball and no longer aimed towards the parking lot. Swoosh! I missed. Not once, but several times.

Even if you’re not a golfer, you’ve heard the phrase, "keep your eye on the ball." Eliminate the "eye" part from the equation, and the simple task becomes much more difficult! However, with perseverance and the moon rising, contact was made, the sound sweet and the feeling through the club shaft exhilarating.

"Where’d she go?"

"About two hundred and forty yards, dead straight."

"Now the truth."

"Ah, just over there... Should I get it?"

And with that, the love affair was rekindled.

As a blind golfer, I need to orchestrate my games and companions to caddy-slash-assist well in advance. Sometimes I enlist a friend or a junior member... a niece... a mother... somebody... ANYBODY! Anybody willing to trudge a course and endure the occasional curse. And while many golfers carry their clubs around in the trunks of their cars, mine are often found in the trunk of a cab.

Days when I can find no companion or cab fare, I am reduced to taking a five-iron to the backyard and swing, swing, swing away. Feel my stance. Check my grip, my balance and swing.

Chomp! Another clump of sod sails off into the blue sky.

I wish my wife Catherine shared my love for golf. She encourages me to play and tolerates my long absences on those days. For this, I am grateful. But she neither thrills with me after a good round nor understands my frustration over a lousy outing. Even today I can hear her words echoing, "I don’t know why you play if it’s going to make you so angry. I thought this was supposed to be fun."

Only a non-golfer would make a silly statement like that.

Only a golfer would respond, "I do love it. That’s why I hate it."

Catherine was the first to see that my addiction to the game was complete when I overruled her decision not to get the additional cable channels. "What?!" I exploded. "No golf channel?"

To Catherine, the channel is "stupid." She says this as she flips to The Y&R.

In the cold winter months, I nestle into my easy chair and switch on the golf channel. Tournament play from sunny, hot Australia and, later, putting tips. Ahh, but life is good.

I’m tempted to clear a patch of snow from the back yard and swing, swing, swing... and dream of forty-eights.