Knocked Over with a Feathery

When I heard the distant cry of “Fore!” I did the customary bow, dipping the knees with one hand covering my head—close to curtsying before a royal personage. And that’s when a ball, on the fly, hit me solidly on the ankle bone, sending me to the ground, which is where I should have thrown myself when I first heard the distant cry of “Fore!”

The scene was a summer morning at the Winter Park Golf Club, known locally as “the WP9,” a lovely nine-hole course located at one end of the main drag in our quiet little town, in the shadow of Orlando. With its renovation about a decade ago by golf architects Keith Rhebb and Riley Johns, the course has been transformed from a fairly ordinary parkland affair with small, flat greens to a more serious and challenging track, now continually ranked among the top short courses in the country.

Best of all, it’s a seven-minute drive from my front door. My partner and I had just putted out on the third green and were walking back along the tree-lined edge of the hole, which is one of two choices the course offers to continue on to the fourth tee, the safer one being on a sidewalk across the street that runs by a church. But players whose approach shots make the third green are likely to drop their bags under the trees and walk to the green with only a putter in hand.

Regulars know to watch for incoming balls when walking back. The guy whose ball hit me would make a terrible nurse. He did walk over with an apology, but he showed little interest in my swollen ankle, nor did he offer me a ticket to the Masters, or ask my sweater size so some cashmere would be waiting for me in the pro shop.

Of course, I accepted his apology and told him I was fine (one lie) and it was not his fault (another one). I mean, who else’s fault was it? According to the Thomistic laws of causality, had he not hit the shot (a yank), I would not be lying on the ground. If the dude actually never existed, I would be fine and playing the next hole. Yes, I waved off my injury like a good sport, and kept my seething feelings of enmity and spitefulness to myself. Are not such split impulses common to us victims of golf-course brutality?

Was I wrong to dwell on the injustice and indignity of being knocked to the turf by a stranger? The following day, as my ankle was being X-rayed, I had a sudden urge to knock him down. But how? He looked like a fit guy, maybe mid-30s. I’m 83. I would just end up on the ground again.

After my partner pulled me to my feet, the ankle continued to swell, but I could walk (it’s a walking course), so on we went to the next tee, from which I split the fairway with a drive of age-appropriate distance. I’ll just walk it off, I thought, brass it out! I gave my partner a nod of manly resolve.

But by the time I’d limped to my ball, the ankle felt as if it had been hit with stunning accuracy by a golf ball traveling through the atmosphere at 100 mph. A call to the pro shop brought a cart offering a bag of ice and a ride to the parking lot, and thus an end to an eventful morning.

And what did I—a man who had never broken a bone before—learn from all this? I learned that the tibia, which connects with the ankle, is the lower leg’s load-bearing bone. And that the word “tibia” comes from the Latin, meaning “shinbone” but earlier, “pipe” or “flute.” Apparently, the very first wind instruments, predating golf by many eons, were the bones of animals. Imagine—music coming right out of your tibia.

Interesting, but not a good swing thought.

Billy Collins was the U.S. Poet Laureate from 2001 to 2003. He’s been a member of the Broken Tee Society since 2018.