Just for fun, a few days after the latest dusting of snow melted away, with nary a soul around to take notice, I carried a quartet of 7-irons from four different sets of clubs to the practice range for an exercise that was more of a sentimental thought experiment than a preseason club test.
Memory and imagination are useful tools for the winter-starved golf brain, a time when “something waits beneath, the whole story doesn’t show,†as artist Andrew Wyeth once observed of his favorite – and most creative – season.
Speaking of favorites, the 7-iron is my go-to golf club, easily my favorite club in the bag, probably the one I’ve hit more good shots with than any other over five decades.
In this case, however, I’d never hit any of these 7-irons.
Three of them, you see, were from sets of clubs that hold special meaning to me, kept in a dusty place of honor in my garage home office, long considered too important to actually play with. They’d belonged to a trio of gentlemen who inspired me to take up the game and shaped my view of it.
The fourth was from my first new set of clubs in more than 15 years. I’d recently been fitted for – shall we say – clubs that would put a little more vigor and distance back into my game. I refuse to call them “senior†golf clubs.
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