Robert is not yet an impulsive shopper. When we recently wandered into [Soul-Crushingly Large Toy Retailer], he sat behind the wheel of several little jeeps, rode a handful of scooters (including a Razor, which didn’t end well), threw about a dozen rubber balls into the huge bin, and swung a Wiffle bat. And he was content to walk away empty-handed, as long as he got to push all the buttons in the elevator. We were almost out the door, however, when he saw a bag of plastic golf clubs and begged me to get them.
We left the store and headed straight for that seminal moment in the patrilineal relationship—the first golf outing. Robert swung with vigor, one-handed, and he missed more than he hit. But when he connected, he was sublime. He got off several clean wallops that split the fairway and elicited golf claps from the gallery of one. Just look at that exquisite form! A perfect crouch, eyes down, watching the club face move through the ball. He’s a natural.
Sure, his game has a few foibles. His left arm sticks straight out behind him like a dorsal fin, he’s chewed a dimple into one of his golf balls, and he likes filling his golf bag with gravel. But these eccentricities will only endear him to the many fans benumbed by the same old assembly line of bland pros living with their cross-eyed, big-breasted wives in gated communities outside Orlando.