SATORI AT THE 8TH TEE: Hints of McLuhan


This a par-3 hole of some 135 yards at which 
I first learned the golf ball is an extension of the eye


It was the end of a lovely October day, the sun melting into 
the far away hills and quiet clothing the course 
like a sheer nightgown.


I took out my 7-iron and teed up.

Trying to overcome a wicked slice in my drive, I was determined 
to keep my eye trained on the ball, the only iron-clad 
law in the game.


I started my downswing and felt my feet lift from the 
mat and the ball vanish off the little wood tee and 
the next thing I knew my eye was soaring into the air.


The view was terrific. I saw the tops of large firs 
guarding the fairway and on the right was a tennis court 
next to a chalet-style house. A little ways ahead of me 
on the ground I spotted the green and the yellow pennant 
hanging off the flagstick in the autumnal air.


At the apex of my trajectory, the shape of my eye, shedding 
off the impact of the impact of the club, rounded itself out and 
I sought out a nice, soft spot to land.


The drop was swift, a smooth parabolic descent and the ground 
water, returning from its retreat from the sun, had filled 
the root structure of the grass with just enough moisture to giv~e my landing full cushion and my spin flipped me out of the 
small dent I made, leaving me to rest, exhilarated and exultant, 
six inches from the hole.


After I'd overcome the beauty of that, my first perfectly 
executed drive, I picked up my clubs and walked down to 
the green and tapped in my ball for a birdie.