When people see us hitting the ball from the sand on to the fairway
(also known as the wood chips to the field at the park) or see him at
the indoor driving range with my husband or my dad, they either laugh
and nod knowingly or they look at suspiciously. And for shared joy or
judgment, they almost always say the same thing, "Maybe he's the next
Tiger!"
And I both cringe and swell to hear this. What parent
doesn't want their kid soar at something that they love? What parent
doesn't envision their child living their dream? If those dreams are
built on toddler obssesions, then yes, maybe my little boy will grow up
to be the next Tiger.
But dreams aren't built on toddler
obsessions. Next month, he could be more interested in tools or dolls
or playing school. Next year, he could put the clubs away for good.
Really, this doesn't matter me. For as much as talking golf for hours
(and hours and hours) on end exhausts me, I love it that he loves it so
much. It isn't about learning the proper way to grip the club or how
far he pummels the ball or knowing the difference between a birdie and
an eagle (what is the difference anyway?). It is about the joy the of
playing.
After all, he's just a kid. His path -- toward the
green or in a lab or in an art studio or in front of a chalboard or at
a piano or on roads around the globe -- is not yet determined. He still
has a lot of discovering to do before he even finds the gate that leads
to the grassy area that overlooks the path.
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