LETTERS FROM HOME: GREAT EXPECTATIONS AND BROKEN FIXTURES

March 6, 1997

Dear Patty,

Millie Limbaugh sends word you interviewed her when she was in California. Millie's the nearest we have to a resident celebrity, but she sure doesn't know how to act like one. When the Rush Limbaugh Tour bus drives by her house, chances are she'll be at her longstanding bridge club game.

Did she tell you about being a singer? Her trio used to appear on a local TV show called "The Breakfast Show." They seemed to model themselves after the Lennon Sisters, but being only 10, I could have been mistaken. My mom was in a different trio that appeared on the same show. Called The Mama-nettes, but sounded like the Maguire Sisters. "Sincerely" and all that.

I thought my mom's trio was better, not because they sounded better but because Millie's trio sometimes held index cards discreetly in their hands to help with lyrics. That's how it is when you're a kid, always comparing things like an optometrist. Which is better, one ... or two? A loaded question. We all think number one is better.

We all expect perfection. Tom Weiskopf, a supremely talented golfer who never seemed to reach his potential, loves to play linksland-style courses. These are the kind of courses that originated in Scotland, built on rolling, treeless land often near the sea.

The ground is hard and retains the imperfections God intended. The bunkers are like mine shafts, and the greens are minuscule, so most often the ball has to be rolled on. It can hop crazily, but that's accepted as part of the game.

In America, most courses look as if they were designed by Disney -- every blade of grass is in place. In America, Weiskopf expects himself to play perfect golf, which is, of course, impossible. Which makes him crazy. In Scotland, the inconsistencies of the terrain free Weiskopf from the yoke of perfection.

The weather hasn't allowed much time on the golf course yet. This is the time of year when, like baseball's spring training, everything is possible. I read and reread instructional books by Ben Hogan and Bobbie Jones, two of the best golfers who ever lived, in the belief that improvement is always possible.

I hit imaginary balls in the living room with a busted three wood, a practice that causes DC to cringe. So far, only one tray and one light fixture have been broken. On every swing, I'm thinking, thinking about Hogan's swing plane advice, Jones' admonitions about the left hip. When I putt, Hank watches and Lucy intercepts balls.

You think, this is the year my swing becomes repeatable instead of producing a long drive on one hole and a 50-yard pop-up on the next. This is the year I figure out how to stop shanking (see "Tin Cup"). This year, putts will seek out holes like prairie dogs ducking out of the rain. We all seek perfection.

The question is how to go about getting it. For me, the answer is to pay as little attention as possible to results and as much attention as possible to the activity itself. To be minutely aware while swinging a golf club or writing a sentence. Doing both without fear of failing. It is passion for the doing that makes all outcomes desirable.

You can love a misdirected shot or a string of words about nothing at all as long as they sing to you.

Love, Sam

~Sam Blackwell is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.