So a thinly struck 6 iron on the 16th hole last Saturday had my golf ball headed in a low trajectory toward a sand trap. Traps don’t normally cause me much angst. My errant shots are frequent visitors to enough bunkers that I get plenty of real-time practice to escape these hazards, not necessarily put it close to the flag, but at least get out.
Not that day.
Rather than roll down to a manageable lie in the flat portion of the trap, my Bridgestone B
330 settled in the bottom of an unraked footprint high up on the face of the steep bunker. The rules of golf make no allowance for a free drop. The only option was (after cursing aloud the idiot who chose not to rake the trap) to play it as it sat. But the ball had nestled 3-4″ down in the footprint. There was little hope to blast out, Houdini-like, in one shot.
My stance was awkward to say the least; one foot high upon the lip, the other one dug down into the sand. Sure enough, one mighty swing didn’t extricate me; the ball stayed in the swath of freshly moved grit caused by my sand iron. Shifting to an even more awkward stance, the second all-out lash was no better, but at least the ball now rolled down the slope to the bottom where it was a relatively easy pitch to get onto the putting surface. But the irritating result was a triple bogey when a one-over-par 4 would’ve been satisfactory.
By then, however, I knew something was wrong with my left knee. It didn’t feel right. It was immediately sore and stiff. I couldn’t bend it and limped my way back to the cart. My wheels had come off.
I sucked it up to finish off the round par-par (alas, the bunker fiasco left me at 81 when the 70s were in sight. So close but yet so far).
Saturday night was awful. The knee ballooned and the soreness increased. But what really rankled me was the prospect that my treasured Sunday morning walk would be abandoned. Sure enough, a restless sleep did nothing for the knee. It became progressively worse. There would be no picking up trash that morning.
And there have been no other walks since then. I’ve driven a bit (the orthopedist says it’s a bad sprain, no real damage) and seen the clutter that is out there awaiting to be picked up. I hope to recover enough to at least gimp around by Saturday.
Here’s to hoping that such optimism is warranted; the ability to hobble would be better than not walking at all. The path awaits.