“What’s the point?”
As we drove in a car littered with brown McDonald’s bags and quarter-filled Coke bottles, my 17-year-old nephew suddenly went all Scottie Scheffler on me. At this summer’s Open Championship, the world’s best golfer had asked that question as he pondered why shots, tournaments and majors were so important to him when they weren’t really what he valued most.
Only my cousin might have come from an even more existential place, with perhaps just a hint of teenage angst about life after 19.
“Like, when I play golf for fun and just now playing golf for fun, he thought, what’s the point of playing?
Adding to his anxiety was the reason for our trip: a golf visit to the university. He had worked hard. Claimed to have read this website. But what if they didn’t want him? What if, yes… golf was just golf?
“Because you get another chance,” I said.
He disagreed. I kept going.
“Maybe you’ll be really great when you’re twenty. Or thirty. Or never. But I always think that you another shot. Bad driving? Try to recover. Bad hole? There’s more. Bad round? Come back tomorrow. Maybe it will all come together. Maybe not. You are in control.”
That’s really growing up.
Or maybe I was full of divots.
Because you don’t always do that get another chance. You are not always at the wheel.
Someone else may be driving.
Ironically, that same thought had occurred to me about ten hours earlier, when I saw a pair of headlights inches from my head.
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AT 10:30 AM THE NIGHT BEFORE, THE RIDESHARE I WAS DRIVING WAS T-BONED AFTER A CAR REACHED A STOP SIGN. We were hit on the driver’s side, where both the driver and I were sitting. The car ended up on its roof. We skidded about 80 feet. The car fell into a ditch before somehow landing back on its tires.
You know the result, of course. After all, I’m writing this. I took the photo above. What else do you want to know?
Are you okay?
Yes, that’s me. I felt pain in my left side; It turns out I broke a rib. My right ankle was bruised. My right hip feels strange. There were cuts on the top of my head. I strangely wondered which bone I would break if I were forced to choose one way or another, and I went with rib, so that’s good I guess.
Have you joked about what happened?
I keep telling my wife that I wonder if the other car is okay after it hit me.
So how is your wife doing after all this?
She’s not sure about my head.
How is the driver? What about the other driver?
Well, all things considered at the time. The person who hit us needed an ambulance, but it looks like he or she is okay.
Ambulance?
Yep, when I finally got out of our car, there were headlights everywhere. A passerby probably called 911. After a short search I even found the sound of the police call. In the end there were two ambulances, two fire trucks and five or six police cars, one of which eventually took me to my place of residence. The officer and I talked a little golf.
Any random thoughts?
You have no idea.
Tell me.
My flight that night was delayed. The rideshare also took a different route than what I am used to.
Any random thoughts?
Do you want to hear about my seat belt?
Go on.
I couldn’t find the lock on it.
Oh no.
So I was going to let it go. I’ve done it before, stupid. But as we drove away, I turned on the light on my phone, saw it, dug it out and clicked it into place.
Wow.
What should I hear about my golf clubs?
Certainly. Are they still whole?
They are. Maybe you can connect a few dots too. We lowered the right rear seat and placed the batons there vertically on the trunk. If they had been on the left side, I probably would have ended up on the road when the car rolled over.
Holy…
There’s more. The clubs were in a travel case with a hard top, and the top prevented the rear passenger door from collapsing – which was the only door that didn’t. I was able to get out; you never know how crucial that is.
Unreal. What were those moments like when the car stopped?
Panic. Our phones kept trying to call 911; the technology was impressive. I wondered if I was okay. I checked for blood. I checked if I could move. I asked the driver if he was okay. Surreal.
What was it like at impact?
I keep thinking about this, to be honest.
What about?
The lights of the car shoot towards us. The shock of a collision. The unknown. One minute you’re looking at your phone. For the next fifteen years you feel suspended and things become eerily fundamental. When does the car stop? What will happen along the way? As the car skidded onto its roof and my head was inches from the pavement, I also said something to myself.
What was that?
Not now. Not now. Please, not now.
Over and over again.
And it wasn’t.
Nick Piastowski
After the police car dropped me off, I ate a sandwich on the subway. My cousin got that for me. He knew I would be late and would be hungry.
About six hours later – I slept maybe two that night – we were on the road again. I was in pain. Sneezing is the worst. If you’re curious about what that feels like, grab a 7-iron, give it to someone and tell them to wave at your ribcage. But I was good enough to go. We stopped at McDonald’s. We visited the school. Spent the night. Went back the next day. The next day, the college golf coach called. He wanted my cousin to join the team. Hell yes.
He will remain a golfer with a capital G. What’s the point? He had answered his own question.
But …
He also gets injections, just like I actually told him.
Like I had received after the accident.
So if they are there, take them with you, because you never know where they will lead.
Or when they’re gone.
Warning! Golf is a metaphor for life! Warning! Was that a bit too much melodrama? Probably. Let’s blame the painkillers.
But take the pictures. Take them again, again and again.
And be grateful that you can take those photos and that they can take you somewhere, even if it’s just a new photo.
That’s the point.
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#life #lesson #golf #lesson #learned #car #ended #ditch