Back on the Horse.

It was a momentary lapse in concentration and a slip of the circular saw that changed my golf game forever...or so I thought.  A few seconds passed between the initial flash of pain and the realisation that I had severed my left index finger.  During moments like these, a million things flash through your short-circuiting mind and strangely at the top of my list was golf.                           

Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t exclusively golf.  While trying to stop the bleeding with a bag of frozen peas and battling to remain conscious, I was secretly hoping that this was an extreme enough situation for me to be able to cry like a 12 year old girl without getting teased by my mates.  Somewhere between my blubbering sobs and the arrival of the “meat wagon”, my better half had managed to find my hacked off digit hidden amongst her prize winning lily pillies.  

In the back of the ambulance, heavily sedated, my thoughts returned to my golf swing.  Like many retired footballers, I had turned to golf to fill a void.  Tiger was never going to be challenged, but my handicap had reached a respectable 15 and the noble game was fast becoming an addiction.  The anticipation of Saturday tee-off was the motivation that carried me though the weekly 9 to 5 grind.

There must have been four or five doctors curiously inspect my hand and finger while I sat dumbfounded in accident and emergency.  Intermittently they stopped bedside and stated the obvious, “it’s a clean cut alright,” then busily whizzed off on their rounds.  At this stage I held some hope that they might be able to stitch the little bugger back on.  The surgeon that mattered arrived stony faced; I held my breath while he expressionlessly delivered the verdict.        

A booming drive was my strength.  You can’t hit long ball with nine fingers.  Can you even hit a ball at all?  I wondered how much I’d get on E-Bay for my clubs.  Maybe I can trade them for a tennis racket?  So much negativity, I was angry with myself.  What about the legendary Jack Newton?  He has one arm and still hits a late draw.  That guy on “60 minutes”, no arms or legs and he still gets 18 holes in.  Snap out of it!  Build a bridge and get over it you gigantic sheila!      

“We won’t be re-attaching the finger,” said the doctor.  He went on to explain that it would be more trouble than it was worth to try without guarantee.  The best option was to take the finger down to the middle knuckle, tidy it up and send me home to get on with my life.  In no position to argue or negotiate I told the Doc to “do what you’ve got to do”.  With that I had mentally accepted my fate.  Now comes the hard part.

Two months later the scarring had finally healed.  I had a good range of movement and was coming to terms with simple tasks like: tying my shoes, using a knife and picking my nose.  Every day I would pick up a club and have a gentle swing in the back yard.  My early experimentation with grips proved fruitless; every swing was agony.  Patience is not my strong suit and this was going to take plenty.  Enough time had passed for my “mates” to start calling me Stumpy, 9.5 or Chopper; but I still wasn’t back out on the fairways.  The frustration was suffocating.

Another month had passed and the big day had arrived.  It was time to get back on the horse.  I hadn’t struck a ball in anger, but my back yard sessions were feeling good.  My grip was still in development stage, as was my confidence.  The adrenalin was pumping as I carefully positioned my ball on the tee.  I surveyed the open fairway ahead, wrapped my sweaty palms around the shaft of my beloved Taylor Made driver and began a slow, measured back-swing.  Tentatively I pulled the trigger.

The dimpled sphere soared down the middle, carrying about 250 metres with minimal pain.  The exhilaration was indescribable - I was back and loving it.  As the round progressed, the pain increased dramatically.  By hole five I was struggling to hold the club, let alone make solid contact.  It was obvious that I had wanted too much too soon.  Pig-headed, I played as many as I could before my partners convinced me to call it a day.  My mental state was torn between rags and riches.  When the dust had settled I had calmed enough to realise it was all just a matter of time.  Golf had to be abandoned for a period, so I could come back properly healed and ready.

Three months later I was ready.  I’d made some “MacGyver” like alterations to my glove, cutting out the index finger for my stump and wearing a rubber thimble on it.  Admittedly it looked ridiculous, but I was hoping it would protect me from any friction pain I had experienced the last round.  My new grip consisted of both thumbs pointing down the shaft and my stump well away from the action.  It was comfortable and practical.  This time I actually felt confident.

All good yarns should have a happy ending, and this is no exception.  That afternoon I completed eighteen pain-free holes.  For a good part of the day I had the boys “on toast”.  Unfortunately fatigue got the better of me and I was reeled in.  It mattered little because I’d found that spark again.  I was back in love with the game I was starting to loathe.  Time had healed all wounds and golf had once again proved that it was a sport that doesn’t discriminate.  There is even a place for me and my stump.