for such an easy task as hitting a little white ball.
As with the clubs, the one teed-up looked almost bored. It appeared fed up with
all the swing practice and dealt with it simply by ignoring it. The
ball appeared to be in a
state it had always been
in: looking relaxed with who and what it was, while waiting for
someone other to get his act together.
Nicolas Kumar felt sorry for the ball, along with himself,
for dragging both up here for this.
The ball remained parked atop the tee as any
glamorized person. It sat fat on its sleek red throne. The one teed up had the
look of a hot-shot celebrity pro, accustomed to being catered
In comparison with Arjuna, the little ball looked markedly
composed. It seemed to
not have one worldly care. The look on the old man’s face suggested
the ball had, as if by magic, become something of a soothe-saying
mystic. It occurred to
him the ball could even
s tart levitating.
Arjuna's concentration switched up then. He
went from being somewhat interested in the ball to all-out
hypnotic. He then had a look on his face of disbelief. The old man
seemed incredulous as to how this one thing could outdo him in the
matter of mind control.
Concerning the old man's stance, Nicolas
thought it was a bit askew. It seemed Arjuna's body was aiming left
towards the tribal regions of Pakistan. The clubhead , on the other hand , looked to have altogether
different travel plans. It appeared to be heading right in the general direction of
Kathmandu. This set up seemed bent on dying a miserable death.
It’s a stance and swing worthy of a few
giggles, thought Nicolas.
He then went back to considering the old
man's everlasting requirement to shift about so. He felt Arjuna
need not mess with his grip so often. What really is the point in
all that? he told himself.
As if he had heard, the old man left off the
agreement, or mafia goon contract he seemingly had out on the grip.
He let go his hold some on the one nearly strangled to give his
trousers a hike. S till
unsure about hitting, Arjuna went at his pants as a seamstress might in taking up the
man gave his pants a tug, one side then the other, as if
this would set things right or situate positive all that made life
wretched in this world: hunger, poverty, disease.
When Arjuna appeared to have settled the matter with his pants,
though issues remained, he viewed with equal eye the eternal
restlessness of all in the Valley of Flowers. He stared at this wild. He added a few
half-practice swings for no good reason.
"He might cut down on his pace," said
Nicolas softly so no one could hear. Yes, that would be one thing
he could do, agreed another inside. "Among many," chimed in t h e first , in a voice nobody could possibly catch.
He ’s doing his best as
coach or life guide, said th e second from within. But he cannot be expected to
do everything. Nicolas told himself also, Well, it is true he is
good with his life-fielding drills. He is good with his strategies
too, said this one who made the other stay quiet inside. Of this
there is no smidgen of doubt. But he can not be expected to do everything.
Arjuna viewed his chosen landing spot out on the fairway. He focused on one spot two
hundred or so meters out. The old man stood ready to make
any minute now an attempt at it by not thinking too much. He had always believed it was best to step up
simply, concentrate on a particular color, an ocean-blue maybe,
then swing all out.
Nevertheless, Arjuna understood once age catches up with any
morning walker he is put back more times than he gets going
With this knowing gift, the old man smiled
at his current predicament. He became happy, fully aware where he
was now physically, and from how amusing this must seem to those
standing by waiting patiently.
To combat his known deficits, he thought to just breathe in deep and
The value of the breath or
Matt Christopher, Paul Mantell