Shanks for the Memory
I was watching a news report of an armed robbery victim who told the TV reporter "the worst feeling in the world is getting shot!" Now I'm not minimizing the trauma of having a body part being pierced by a bullet, but it's clear to me this injury victim never played golf. If he did, getting shot would be the second worst feeling ever, with the dreaded shank coming in first by a large margin.
Shanks are God's way of telling us we need humbled. It can happen to anyone, from the novice player to the touring pro. It can come in the beginning, middle or end of a round. It can happen with any club with a hosel from a full power shot to a soft chip. We never see it coming, and we're blindsided with shame when it occurs.
Shanks mirror the cycle of a terminal illness. The first stage is denial. When we hammer a shank sideways, our first reaction is "That just didn't happen. No way. It couldn't have happened to me. This thing happens to other people, not me." The second stage is anger. "Best drive I hit in months and I have to shank it out of bounds from 30 yards out," you say to yourself as you slam your club into the ground with steam coming from your ears. You learn to swear again. You say words you told God you would never again repeat. You look around at your playing companions to see if one of them has the indignity to laugh at your plight, as you are ready, willing and able to implant a lob wedge where the sun don't shine should they dare to mock you in your moment of anguish. But they look away. They walk fast in directions other than where you are headed. If they are laughing, and they probably are, you cannot tell. This only makes you madder and your frustration grows.
The third stage is acceptance. You cannot deny the obvious. You just made a fool of yourself in front of your peers, and there is no retreat. The ugly sound of a pure hosel mishit has echoed throughout the course. Everyone has heard your miscue. Those near you witnessed firsthand the trajectory disaster. You denied it, got mad, and now all that is left to do is deal with the obvious and accept your fate. The only problem is, you have to hit the same club or thereabouts again, and everyone will be watching with heightened interest. Shanks are hardly lone occurrences. They come in bunches, and for some unfortunate few, they last a lifetime. And that's the dilemma now facing you - having to hit the same type shot again with the same club that just ruined your score, your day and maybe even your life.
You finally locate your ball in thick brush, take a penalty drop and stare at a 30 yard flip shot. You made this shot thousands of times before, often with spectacular results. It's an easy shot by any standard, except for the fact that you just shanked one like it not 5 minutes ago. Suddenly, the fear rushes into your psyche and you quickly analyze the mechanics of averting a shank. One shank is bad. Two would be the beginning of the end. You know it. Your companions know it. People three holes over know it, and everyone is watching with interest how you react. You look around for flammable liquids and a match to facilitate a fast exit from life in case you shank again, and with none handy, you throw caution to the wind and take your swing.
You don't even have to look up to see the shot. You know immediately it went sideways. Two in a row and you can't even pick up your head to see where the ball is going so deep is your shame. The tremors that rocket through your arms are reminders of how a shank feels. It's the total opposite of a perfect shot, where you don't even feel the impact so pure was your swing. Shanks, however, talk back with a gusto, like fingernails screeching on a blackboard. You can't shake the shank feeling no matter how hard you try. It's like a stink about you that soap won't rinse off, and people begin to avoid you as if you have an active case of spinal meningitis.
You are now a man without a country. You are cast adrift on an ocean filled with hosel sharks hungry to make you their next meal. You have three holes to go and after two consecutive 30 yards pitch shots, you are still 30 yards from the green in worsening position. It's the beginning of the longest day of your life and you whisper a silent prayer to God saying, "Today would be a nice day to end the world. Take me. I'm ready." But God does not hear you. God never shanked, so he cannot pity your suffering. By a miracle, you finally manage to finish the hole without shaming yourself further, but before you hole your final putt on 18, you add two more clean shanks to your day's inventory.
Your friends pretend nothing happened. No one dares use the word shank for fear it will attach to them like a score sucking parasite. You order a drink and spill half of it on your shirt, your hands still shaking. You go to the rest room and wet your shoes because you can't even pee straight. The shanks have followed you on and off the course, and you ask the person you rode out with to find another way home because you cannot guarantee anyone's safety that might come into close contact with you.
The next day, you wake from your sleep and wonder if it was all a dream. You run to your car and pull out your clubs, inspecting the wedge closely. Your worst fears materialize. Dimple marks on the hosel are evident, so without much ado, you jump in the vehicle and head to the range to fix the problem before it worsens. You grab a bucket of pills and act as if nothing happened. Maybe it's just one of those weird scenes inside a golf mine never to happen again. You drop a ball on the mat and take a three-quarter swing. The ball careens off the hosel with enough force to ricochet back off your practice area sideboard and smack you right in the ankle. Not only did you shank, but you shanked your ankle. They call this a shankle shot. People near you on the practice tee begin to leave for more deserted areas of the facility. You are again alone, and hit 7 pure shanks with your next 10 lob wedge shots.
You are worn out. You take a seat and utter the F-word to no one but yourself. You have no answers. You have no clues. It's all a mystery of epic proportions and it could be the end of golf, as we know it. One day soon, you will wake up and it will all be a distant memory. The shanks will have disappeared as quickly as they once appeared. You won't know how they happened, and you won't know how you were cured. These are just some of the mysteries of the game, and if you play, you will pass through the shank portal during your journey. May your excursion sideways be short. Until then, fore.