Creamatory
She ducked into The Ice Creamatory for a reprieve from the heavy, hot July. Looking more for a distraction from the heat than a particular flavor-of-the-day, she perused the Board of Choices from her end spot in the snaking line. She also checked out the palette of colors behind the glass of the display case.
“Trick or Treat,” vanilla with dark chocolate drizzle. ”Hocus Pocus,” rainbow sprinkles and strawberry cream. ”The Boogeyman,” marshmallows and Oreos. She’d not considered Halloween and ice cream to be such partners in crime, but it was too late for a mind change as a crowd had rushed in behind her. She was now somewhere in the middle of a longer winding line.
The guy in front of her was wearing a licorice and lime Titleist golf cap.
She asked him, “What’s your handicap?”
He nervously laughed and said, “I can only barely shoot par on maybe 4 out of 18 holes.”
“I have an arbitrary question for you,” she said, “you game?”
Somewhat curious and compliant, he nodded, “Sure.”
(What else was he going to say, to an inquisitive sweaty woman locked in a spooky ice cream line.)
“Before you hit the ball off the tee, what’s the most important quality within yourself you pay attention to?”
Immediately proud he said, “Hips.”
“I mean quality not physiology,” she clarified, while pointing at her head.
“Swinging his eyes from the slowly shrinking line to the aproned scooper and then back to the woman with the question at hand, he reluctantly answered, “Calm.” With an extra deep breath, his hands pleading to the gods of golf, “Calm. I need calm.”
“How often do you get it?”
“Rarely,” he replied.
Intrigued, she dug a little deeper, “When you do get it, how long does it take you to find it? A few seconds…minutes?”
“When I go to the driving range….ahhhhhh…. it can take 45 minutes,” he begrudgingly admitted.
She nodded knowingly, compressing her lips in solidarity. Changing states is hard.
The Scottish Open was on the TV in the corner of the shop.
”I don’t know how they do it,” he said wistfully while leaning against the plastic chain keeping them in the row.
“The pros?” she asked.
“Yeah, how in the world do they do it?”
“It’s a complicated journey, “ she breathed. “They practice learning how to get ready as fast as they can. Rehearsing it with as much diligence as they rehearsse what to do with the club when it’s in their hands. The transition of the internal condition is a bear.”
Just then, from the Creamatory’s TV, Rory McIlroy flew one past the fescue out of bounds toward the train tracks outside of Royal Troon.
The weekend golfer in front of her pulled the bill of his cap down over his eyes. “Now he’s got to drop a ball and try the shot again. With the image of that in his head.” He took a nanosecond and half-laughed self-consciously, “What a relief! He’s human.”
She volleyed back, “A human with 20 million people watching and a scorecard that already has too many geometric shapes. But he’s been here before.”
They ordered their cold treats.
On cue, McIlroy teed up a second ball blasting it 320 yards down the right side of the fairway. Its dimples and spin slowed it to a stop just before the rough.
The scooper server handed the weekend warrior his ice cream as he shook his head in disbelief.
“Thank you for playing,” she said, as he grabbed some napkins, his cone and headed for the door.
He made that transformation fast.