“I must not lose myself in the woods or the pits today!”
Kira’s mental chatter got acuter. Matches against strangers gave her the cold
sweats, particularly when she played as a defending champion. She tried to distract
her nasty self-talk by calling out to her caddie, “Nassir! Have you cleaned my
bag and marked all the balls? Keep track of the score card alright; there was
also some mix up last time with the yardage calculation and yes, we will use my
pink ball on the greens.” She thus extended
her anxious shroud as she fought the onslaught of other people’s natty golf
clothes, branded kits, their formidable handicaps, tales of the hundreds of
balls they hit in practice and their impressive tournament experience. “Dear sweet God, let me not make a fool of
myself today!” went her silent prayer as the others stretched, hydrated and practice
swung their drivers in the air around her.
Asked, Kira would be hard put to answer why she was there in
the first place. Initiated into the sport by her parents, she liked it well
enough; it was the patronizing magnanimity shown her gender and the lack of
quality training that chafed. Of the only other woman she knew to be a
champion, she had heard the gentlemen say, “But she plays off the ladies tees!”
“I hope I don’t mess up my fairway woods today. My drive has
too
Neil, her husband, was approaching her from the practice bay,
“Just enjoy the game Kira. You look tense, decompress a bit. One shot at a
time, remember. There is no making up in golf!” She nodded absently, almost
dismissing the counsel, “Will you be following me?” She wanted to tell him that
his body beamed the quality of her shots and that amplified her fear and
frustration.
Something was amiss today. Kira’s emotions were stealing up,
almost taking over. She walked towards the washrooms, conscious of jittery
limbs and a humming pinball in the stomach. “It is only a game,” she whispered
to herself, “nerves are good, they are priming, I am ready to go.” Fielding myriad thoughts, she stepped into the
shaded confines of the Golf Cottage. She was reaching out for the towel when a
stabbing pain lit up her chest. Her throat closed and she hunkered down slowly,
breathless and shivering. Dabbing at the sweat welling on her face and neck,
she pulled out her phone and dialled Neil’s number.
Having materialized besides her in a jiffy, Neil took complete
charge. Soon enough she could hear her sports doctor on the phone loudspeaker,
he was responding to Neil’s description of her symptoms, “You are looking at a
full blown panic attack. Don’t worry; she is healthy and quite safe. Her
perfectionist attitude and competitive spirit have precipitated this crisis.
She must have stood there, reviewing her worst moments of play. Bad strategy!
Give her fifteen minutes.”
Kira lay down on the couch, taking deep breaths. “I want to WD!”
“Withdraw?!” the doctor cheeped. “Now listen to me. You have
the cognitive wherewithal you need right now. Remember the two seconds rule, no
more than that on bad shots then turn to your mental pre-shot routine.”
Kira pulled together her floundering muscles and
straightened up at the memory of her coach’s words, “There is no other way. You
play through misfortunes. That is the essence of golf!”
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