The Hole of the Third Eye - A Fable of Golf, Zen, and Life
by Wayne Smith
Chapter 1
Joseph: First Meeting
| Finished with the 8th hole, we climbed the steep slope
from the quarry floor one last time. The course had
been a challenge. Laid in an abandoned sand
quarry, it was rough, shaggy, and demanding as it dipped
into and out of the old excavations. Also, adjusting to the
old hickory shafts and gutta-percha balls that the
monastery demanded had been difficult for me; the need to
relax and wait for the club was foreign to my anxious
nature.
But all that was just preamble; we were now
approaching the hole that gives this Japanese Zen retreat
its name: The Order of the Third Eye. We didn’t talk,
Joseph and I, as we labored up the slope, anticipating what
we would soon experience. |  |
I wasn’t prepared for the impact of what we were
approaching, and I had no idea that these next few
moments would be the last I would share with this strange
and wonderful character, the most enigmatic I have ever
known.
My first meeting with Joseph was three months prior to
our "Hole of the Third Eye" experience: early in July of the
year before last. I can be sure of that, because I remember I
was at the range as a result of a particularly awful round
I’d played in the Independence Tournament at my golf
course. Looking back at the calendar for that year, the
tournament was on Saturday so this would have been on
Sunday, July 7th.
The practice range is kind of like an AA meeting. (At
least it’s what I think one would be like; that’s one problem
I haven’t had to face, yet.) What I mean is, there are regular
faces that I see all the time, occasionals who show up every
now and then, and there are also a steady flow of one-timers
that you never see again.
I always check the attendance when I arrive; back then
I kept hoping to find a spot next to a woman hitting a twoiron,
but that never happened. On this day, I didn’t notice
anyone or anything unusual, and I’m sure that Joseph
wasn’t there.
I didn’t follow my normal routine that day. Although our
range has a short-game practice area (a putting green and
sand trap) and a lessons-only area that our pro uses, I
usually chose to spend most of my time working on my full
swing; I could normally be found along the full-swing line,
pounding away with my long irons or driver.
I knew that my short game was my real problem (It’s
every golfer’s main problem, as the average golfer spends 70
percent of his strokes from 100 yards in.) I knew that,
intellectually, but I kept on thinking I would concentrate on
my short game "just as soon as I can lock in on my full
swing." And I did find the secret. The problem was that I
found it over and over.
The usual pattern was that I would come to the range
anxious to practice, locked in on a swing thought that was
working for me in my last session. I would be happy, eager,
and expecting good things. But, more often than not, my
first swings didn’t work; the ball would do strange and
awful things. So, after a string of failures, I would have no
choice but to begin tweaking, fiddling with my mechanics
based on whatever was going wrong on that day.
Eventually–perhaps midway through the second bucket–I’d
find a thought that worked, and I’d hit the last 20-30 balls
like a pro. I would leave with that new swing thought, only
to bring it back and then go all through the same failureand-
rediscovery pattern again the next day.
That was also the pattern when I was on the golf course.
I had an array of swing thoughts–three or four basic
variations–and I tended to cycle through them irregularly.
One thought might stay with me for several rounds, but
eventually I would have some bad scores that would push
me into trying something else. Sometimes, when things
were really grim, I might go through a couple changes
within a single round. I had strong grips or weak grips;
active arms or passive arms; big hip-turn or no hip-turn; an
upright swing or a flat swing; lateral weight shift or a
stationary head; strong roll of my left arm through the ball
or no roll through the ball… The list goes on.
Throughout all of that, I did have a few favorite
thoughts I kept reverting back to, but was never able to
settle on anything. That was why I could be found so often
at the range; I continued to search and I continued to
believe that I would find the secret.
But on that day I went straight to the putting green,
and I had three putters (from my extensive collection) with
me. In that Saturday’s tournament, I’d needed 43 putts. For
anyone that doesn’t know, that is an awful amount; the
word "impotent" comes to mind. (Back then, impotent was
an accurate term for my golf game in general.) The normal
standard is that you should do no worse than two putts on
every hole. Given that you should have some one-putts, and
maybe a chip-in here and there, it’s reasonable to hope for
32-34 putts in a round. (A pro will usually need less than
30.) My round had certainly been poor, and I was resolved
to finally address the problem.
I’d been fiddling with my stroke, trying each of the
putters I’d brought, when an older guy–Joseph, I would
later learn–came onto the green and began to putt at one of
the other practice cups. I didn’t pay much attention to him,
at least at first. But if I had to describe him, a brief
summary would have been "old geezer." I would put him at
about 70, gray thinning hair, a ruddy outdoor complexion,
short and a little stocky. He looked hard and muscular but
stooped over and with a bit of a limp to his right leg. He was
dressed in rumpled khakis with a cotton button-up shirt,
not the golf or polo shirt you would expect. I didn’t notice
that day, but I later realized that his shoes were not golf
shoes but just regular leather shoes with rubber soles.
For a while we studiously avoided each other. He really
didn’t hit many putts and didn’t try anything over a few
feet.
But eventually he acknowledged me. "So, how’s the
putting going?"
"Well, I’m certainly where I belong. 43 putts yesterday."
I offered the standard golfers lament.
He didn’t say anything in response to that, just a wry
grimace. But he moved toward me. "I see you’re trying
putters. Mind if I take a look?"
I didn’t object at all and waved him over. I handed him
my new Odyssey 2-Ball I was using, and he picked up my
old Zebra and the long-shaft putter that were lying beside
the cup. "Quite a variety," he said. "Which do you like?"
"Depends on the time of day."
He put down the others and gestured at me with the
long putter. "Never used one of these. Mind?"
"Not at all. Give me a lesson," I said, gesturing toward
the cup I’d been using.
"Let me see," he said. "Never have done this. You hold it
like this?"
He had it right, the grip end of the long shaft held in his
left hand that was pressed against his chest and with his
right hand down on the shaft, ready to swing the club like a
pendulum.
"You got it. Let’s see you sink one."
He smiled a little smile, looked at my cup and then
turned and looked across the green. We were standing on
the high side, with the slope running down and to the left
from us. Without seeming to take much aim, he raked a ball
to him and sent it running downhill at a cup on the far side
of the green. With the way he whacked it, and the speed it
had, the ball didn’t have much chance to curve with the
slope and slammed into the pin, jumped almost straight up,
landed back on the front lip of the cup and proceeded to
topple into the hole.
"Wow!" I said. "Thank heavens for the pin. Otherwise I
think it would still be rolling. Some putt."
"Pretty lucky, I’m sure," he agreed. "I guess these newidea
things aren’t for an old fool like me." He came over to
me, handed over the long putter, and picked up my old
Zebra. "This is more like me, I guess. You can see I’m kind
of stuck in the old ways." He nodded his head toward his
putter lying beside mine: an Acushnet Bulls-Eye probably
40-50 years old. He waggled the Zebra a few times. "Yeah,
this is more like it, I think." He raked in another ball and
sent it rolling down the slope. But this time he just stroked
it gently, starting the ball on the high side of the slope so
that it began to break sharply as it meandered across the
green. Halfway down the slope I could see it had a chance
as it continued to curve toward the same hole. Just when I
thought it was going to stop short, it picked up one last
breath of momentum and joined its mate at the bottom of
the cup.
"Good Lord," I exclaimed. "What a putt. How did you do
that?"
He shrugged. "Like I said. Just lucky, I guess."
"Luck, my eye. Tell me how you did that."
"Maybe some other time, son. I don’t think you’d want to
listen to some old codger like me."
"Like heck. I’d give a lot to be able to do that."
He looked up, cocking an eye at me. "Would you now?
You’d be open to something different?"
I assured him that I would welcome anything he said,
and he shrugged.
"Well, maybe just one thing. But, I’ll warn you. You
can’t really take one thing from me, without taking a whole
lot more. You know, one idea on its own isn’t worth much.
But here’s something for you to think about. Ever hear of
the "third eye?"
I shook my head and waited.
"Well, the idea is that you’ve got this third eye. It’s sort
of in your head, you see? And in a way, well, it sees things
more clearly. Better than your regular eyes do. The idea is
to learn to use that third eye."
"I’m not sure I follow that."
He raked another ball and took a stance. "Like I said,
you’ve got this third eye." He made a circle with his left
thumb and forefinger and put it up to his eyes, so he was
looking through it. "When you look down at the ball, you’re
looking with all three eyes, right?"
"OK, I guess," I said with a shrug.
"So, when you turn your head to look at the hole you’re
also looking there with all three eyes. See? Then what you
do is, you look back at the ball but you leave your third eye
looking at the target."
When he said that, he looked at the hole through his
circled fingers. Then he turned his head back down to the
ball but kept his left hand where it was so that the circle
ended up just above his left ear.
"That way," he said, "You’re looking both places, the ball
and the cup, at the same time. Makes it easier."
Without moving his left hand back to the putter, he
made a right-handed stroke and sent the ball rolling after
its two mates. This one didn’t go in, curving a little short of
the cup and ending "gimme" distance away. He watched the
ball stop, looked over at me and gave his little wry smileshrug.
I stood there, kind of dumb-struck, as he picked up
his old Bulls-Eye and walked off the green.
I thought he was leaving, but he thumped the heel of his
putter into the ground, raising a little buckle of sod. He
dropped a ball and rolled it onto the little bump he’d made
and then turned to be sure I was watching.
When he saw that he had my attention, he took a stance
and then seemed to morph right before my eyes. His slouch
disappeared, and his posture became lithe and athletic in
the stance that any golfer would instantly recognize as that
of a superior player. He almost seemed to take on an aura.
He then took his putter back, turning in a long and graceful
arc. From the top he seemed to glide back toward the ball,
and it was only in the last possible instant that the club
flashed through the ball, sending it screaming away on a
low, hard line. He held a graceful and high finish as we both
watched the ball lift upward with its backspin, float for
what seemed forever, and then settle gently at the 200-yard
marker. Finished, he dropped back into his old-man
persona.
I’ve remembered the detail of that swing ever since; I
don’t think I’ll ever forget. At home, I have some old Bobby
Jones tapes, and I can’t watch them now without thinking
I’m watching Joseph. (Of course, at that time I didn’t yet
know his name.)
"Jesus! What was that?" (I think back from the
perspective I have now, and I feel badly about using that
epithet, but I was too startled to think.) He didn’t say
anything and gave every sign that he was just going to walk.
"Wait a minute. How did you do that? You can’t just
do that and leave."
"Well, what do you want, son?"
"I want you to tell me how you did that. How is that
possible, some kind of trick?"
"No, it’s not any trick. A putter blade has some loft to it,
you know. Not much different than hitting a one-iron."
"Like hell!" (Again, regrets) "That’s nothing like a oneiron.
I doubt there is anyone at this club that could even
think of doing that. You can’t show me that and then not
tell me what your secret is."
"Like I said, no trick, no secret. It’s just applying what
anyone knows."
"Like anyone knows? I sure don’t know!"
"Oh, I’ll bet you know more than you realize. You just
don’t act on it."
"You’ll have to prove that to me. Tell me what you did
there."
"Not now. At least, not right now. If you really want to
learn, there’s a lot we have to consider before even thinking
about golf."
"I don’t understand. Like what?"
"Like life. You can’t come close to your golf potential,
your potential in anything, for that matter, if you don’t have
yourself straight with life."
I didn’t like the sound of that, but I knew I wanted what
he could do with a golf ball. "Sure. OK, tell me."
"Can’t tell you. Can’t tell you about anything: golf or life.
All I can do is help you find your golf. And if you want to
find your golf you’re going to have to find your life also. You
ready for that, son?"
"Bring it on, pops!"
The wry smile again. "OK. Here’s a question for you to
think about. When you’ve done that, we’ll see where things
go. Question is: What do you want to be?"
"What do you mean? Be what? What do I want to be as a
golfer? What do I want to do for work? What?"
"Doesn’t matter. Whatever it means to you."
"Well, OK. I want to be a better golfer, I want to…"
He cut me off. "Not here. Not now. Too quick. You have
to think about it. Let it soak in. Then when you’ve really
thought, then it will be time for us."
"OK. When? Tomorrow?"
"No need to set a time. When you’re ready, when you’ve
thought, I’ll know and I’ll find you. Don’t worry, just think.
I’ll see you, soon enough."
Then he turned abruptly and limped through the
bordering stone wall and into the parking area. I gathered
my clubs and balls and followed after him, but when I got
into the lot, he was nowhere to be seen.
That’s funny, I thought. I don’t think I saw a car leave.
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