Tony Blair vs The Inner Critic: Round 2

The other thing that comes to me in the "Tony Blair moments" of my life is Johnny. Regardless of whether the error was mine or is one, the aftermath of which I'm simply witnessing, I go back to the hot muggy summer of 1964, in Washington, D.C., long before the invention of the Brazilian blow-dry, and the wisdom of a man named Johnny...

Upon graduation from high school, I took up golf to try and win a used Volkswagen Bug from my dad. (I must have been channeling Og Mandino or some other Salesman archetype pretty well when dad not only agreed to that proposal, but appeared to do so with both happiness and tremendous amusement!) The challenge was that I needed to break 100, in two months, at our club where the U.S. Open had just been played. The course was challenging and I'd really never played golf before but, at the time, it seemed like a reasonable caper: He loved golf and I wanted a car for college in the fall. I definitely put in the work, though. In an effort to assure my win, and not really aware of the fortune it was probably costing my dad in greens fees (and which he never mentioned), I played either 18 holes and took a lesson or 36 holes every day. In between, I practiced at the driving range. I was Bound and Determined like never before. (And of course it didn't hurt that I fell hopelessly in love with the game, the first time I played, sweetly seduced by a ball I chipped crisply into the hole from off the green.) Now this was a really long time ago, before electric carts had become commonplace, and the club we belonged to required that everyone (of any age) pay a caddy if they wanted to play there.

So that's where I met Johnny. I don't remember the golf pro's name or the names of most of the people I played with during that time (other than my dad, of course), but I remember Johnny's name because, to me, he was god. I was 18, he was 30 and he, himself, played below scratch golf. He was a recently-returned military veteran who caddied at the club that year and assisted the pro with the children's golf clinic, I think, on the side. He must have liked my commitment and dedication... or maybe it was my great love affair with the game... but whatever it was, he carried my little tan naugahyde bag (with the attractively "sporty" dark brown piping) and taught me every day that summer and was truly my biggest and most patient supporter.

One day, however, I hit my ball soundly into a Black Hole... Okay, it was actually what polite golfers call a "bad lie" (often only after they have silently cursed to themselves and ground their teeth). My ball was stuck in the crease of a sand trap, with the green several feet above it (and me). Oops. I opened the club face and took my stance, just like Johnny told me to. I kept my head down, my eyes on the ball, concentrated on not bending my left arm, and took my first shot. Then, alas, I took another. And... oh dear... another. And another. Somewhere along the way, my Inner Critic grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and took hold. My self-hatred and despair grew greater and greater with each swing and, somewhere along the line, I began cussing (as my mother would say, "like a stevedore"), for the remainder of the 17 shots I took before I had extricated myself from that pit of hell. Not pretty. Not at all cute. Johnny calmly watched me putt out and take my 23 or something for that hole, and then he quietly set my clubs down on the next tee and walked off the course. Not even a word.

Well, to anybody who thinks one has to yell to get through to kids, I beg to differ. Standing there, in his silence, I felt humiliation and shame to the 12th power. I finished the round sobbing, carrying my own clubs, and feeling completely mortified and alone. I knew he would never forgive me if I just quit and stood on my lower lip. After the 18, I went humbly, still sobbing of course (teenage girls have more available tears than the average person), in search of my guru. I found him and, pleading for his forgiveness, I expressed my overwhelming shame and remorse and proffered my sincerest apologies, to which he said:

Look, when I was overseas, I flew out a window from the fourth floor of an eight-story building on fire and ended up in a field medical unit. I was badly burned with pretty serious injuries and I was depressed... feeling very sorry for myself... for weeks. Then one day I looked around me and saw how badly injured a lot of my buddies were and I thought I'd better quit that sorry-for-myself stuff and get on with it.

Now, did you see Arnold Palmer hitting out of the lake yesterday on TV? (I had.)

There is only one difference between a pro and an amateur and that is who gets out of a bad lie with more poise and grace. Don't you ever feel so special that you won't get a bad lie now and then!

And ever since that moment, when I have faced what felt like a disaster or when I have made a mistake and my Inner Critic (or my Inner Eeyore) has begun to get a foothold, or whenever I see somebody else potentially at the mercy of their Inner Critic, that's what I think about. I think of Johnny and his grave disappointment in me when I over-focused on feelings of sorrow and anger at myself and how there is only one difference between a pro and an amateur... And, if a disaster is mine, I try my very best to just stay conscious and face it. If a mistake is mine, then I try my best to acknowledge the error. Then I dust myself off and try to focus fully on what's next. If the disaster or mistake is somebody else's, I watch them and pray they can/will meet that experience with consciousness and integrity and then refocus and get on with their lives.

Isn't it crazy how some people can make such a huge impact on us and, at the moment not realizing their importance to the very fabric of our lives, we lose track of them? I never even knew Johnny's last name and I'd give anything to have been able to thank him. Well, this is a blog and it is in cyberspace which, I am told, is a Very Big Place so maybe somehow he'll find it and come to know, all these years later, how much he is appreciated and how profoundly he touched my life...

And then maybe, just maybe, he could call Tony up, fly over to the U.K. and give him a pep talk... Or if he doesn't need a pep talk, I would urge Tony to hire Johnny for some truly great golf lessons!

© Nancy Young 2010