Imagine, if you can, forgetting how to walk. Or how to lift a drink to your mouth, because that’s what happened to my putting about five years ago. Once I thought myself a fine putter, one who made the short ones and sometimes the long ones; one capable of getting hot with the blade.

Since, I’ve been through three or four putters, putted with the toe in the air and the blade flat to the ground, with my eyes closed, while looking at the cup instead of the ball, with the first three fingers of my right hand disengaged from the grip, with my left hand resting at my side, talking my way through the stroke or trying to be so quiet with my mouth, body and mind, hoping only the shoulders might move.

I’ve talked about it until David Lisle, Bobby Florer and Rick Parish want to throw me out of the pro shop.

I shot a Friday 73 and failed to see my putter strike one ball into the hole. Because closing my eyes kept the demons at bay.

Saturday it was a 75, but only after a front-nine 41 in which eyes-closed quit working and had me wanting to quit the game after eight holes, because what’s the point when four birdie putts, ranging from 8 to 20 feet, all become bogeys before leaving the green.

Really, why even play?

Then I made a tester for par on No. 9 and another to avoid a fifth three-putt on No. 10. I kept the glove on for the first time and that seemed to help. Somehow. I fought back the fear of seeing the putter hit the ball. Still afraid where it might go, I watched nonetheless.

I did not putt well, but I ceased being the worst putter in the history of bad putting. I’ve written too many chapters in that book already.

Now, apparently, though many strokes back, I’m on the First Flight leaderboard, pleased not to have been DQ’d, wondering how I’ll respond and wishing it hardly mattered.

But it does.

There you go.

Clay Horning

366-3526

cfhorning@normantranscript.com