Teaching Grandchildren How To Putt

It was bound to happen by now,
The tiniest course will be theirs.
He knew that he must teach them how
To know how it feels to win, if anybody cares

These are skills to remember
A lifetime to use but yet,
How hard it seems to keep their focus
And their rapt attention get.

The place had a pirate theme,
Eye patches, red bandanas, flintlocks and belt buckles,
Cannons and ships, sails and slips,
Forgotten were scurvy, rum and bruised, abraded knuckles.

Grandpa’s reaching the end of his rope—
Now there’s an idea—he really wants to teach,
But always on the move,
They’re so very hard to reach.

There’s enough rope to allow
Holding them securely enough to start.
They are still and listen now
To what he teaches and still knows by heart.

‘Holding the putter—begins with the hands.
Place the lead hand—the one closest to the pin—
at the top, And the trailing hand below it.
No, your thumb goes on top, that’s it’

‘Now addressing the ball has several parts:
Nose above it, centered between the feet.
Turn the head, eye the target.
Look at your feet again to see….’

If I can just get two or three things across
In each little lesson,
They won’t be tied up for very long,
And soon the joy of winning will carry them on.

“Why can’t we just hit the ball?
I’m in a hurry—rocks to climb and see,
Bugs to chase down—and I have to win
The race, so I can go first at the next tee…”

‘No, first lay the putter down,
Touching the tip of each big toe.
The putter points the way a ball,
if you strike it well, will go.’

Now skeletons I spy
In pirates’ graves under the sea.
There’s more to see, much more
But who will know?

‘Now how to strike the ball—
The backswing—straight and smooth without a jerk,
Move the putter forward, along the ball’s intended course,
The wrists don’t bend, the shoulders do the work.’

I think they are getting it.
They were “bound” to, as I wished.
Teaching them is easy,
once bonds have been established.

“Grandpa, can’t we stop now?
I’m hungry, I thought you said ice cream
I think Mommy forgot to give us lunch,
I won’t see any pirates if all we do is putt.”

Grandpa continues—
‘The putter’s blade is perpendicular
To where you want to go
There are one hundred ways
To go awry for every one that’s true.’

Figures watching, with hooks for hands, and
Pegs for legs—some long-forgotten fish,
Encountered at the wrong time,
Striking at limbs not of the prey it sought.

“We know it, Grampa. We know it now.
We’ll show you what we learned,
Untie us, we can show you how,
and then we’ll have ice cream.”