For a long time I could never hit a driver very well. I struggled making contact with every type and brand of driver I could find. There have only been two clubs in my whole life that I was good with.

My first driver and I had a tumultuous relationship. We never really got along with each other until one magical day at the driving range. My roommate and I went out to hit a bucket of balls at the local range and, for whatever reason, I was smoking them with my driver. It was insanity. I was hitting the straightest shots of the tee that I’d ever seen. Everything was finally coming together for me.

I took a break and my roommate asked if he could give it a try. On his very first swing I watched as his ball flopped into the air while a dark object sailed right by it. That dark object turned out to be the head of my driver.

My roommate had killed my club.

This was years ago and it wasn’t until last summer that I found a new driver I could get along with. I still have the broken shaft of that first driver that I keep as a memento of what could have been.

The Decapitated Driver is a post from: The Golf Slice