According to at least a few of my Internets correspondents, the one thing they regret most about my decision to blow up my humble old blog and disperse myself across the blogosphere is that I don’t do Jamie updates very often anymore. So here’s a Jamie update for at least a few of my Internets correspondents!
For those of you who don’t know who Jamie Bérubé is, well, where have you been? Jamie is world famous. People all around the planet have thrilled to his adventures with teenagerhood, as he jumps off diving boards, plays volleyball, takes a tang soo do class, goes on trips with his father, learns all about the Beatles, and wins three gold medals in the local Special Olympics. In the five months since the GNF struck my blog, Jamie has earned his orange belt in tang soo do, breaking his board — with the left leg, the “wrongâ€? leg — on the very first try. (His father needed two kicks to get it done, thank you very much.) But the real breakthrough this year has been golf.
When Jamie was quite young (seven or eight) I would take him golfing with me in Illinois. But back then, he didn’t actually play; he just came along for the ride in the golf cart, and occasionally he took a few whacks with a putter now and then. We would drive down to the Ironhorse golf course in Tuscola, Illinois, because the course was usually empty (and beautiful and challenging!) and because they were cool with letting Jamie ride along and putt sometimes. (By contrast, when I moved to Pennsylvania I learned that the Penn State golf courses would charge Jamie a rider’s fee and would insist that he stay in the cart. “Feh,â€? I said to the Penn State golf courses.) Jamie loved bouncing up and down the moguls, and he really loved it when I put four consecutive balls in the water on Ironhorse’s par-3 third hole. Good times! And as we were leaving Illinois, Jamie did an amazing thing. One day in mid-April of 2001, I was driving him and Nick down to St. Louis to see a Blues game (playoff, first round, San Jose Sharks). For those of you unfamiliar with the Illinois terrain, let me put it this way: the landscape between Champaign and St. Louis is almost completely featureless. There are no distinguishing marks anywhere — just a series of fields and silos and the occasional barn. Suddenly, Jamie said “Ironhorseâ€? from the back seat. “Did you say ‘Ironhorse’?â€? I asked. “Mm hm,â€? Jamie replied. I realized a few minutes later that we had just passed the almost completely featureless Tuscola exit, and that my little nine-year-old with Down syndrome had identified it as the Ironhorse exit — even though he and I had last been there in October of the previous year. He’s a kind of amazing kid, that Jamie.
So anyway, last year I began experimenting with letting him hit balls out of the first cut of the rough. (His swing was still so erratic that when he swung at balls on the fairway, he would sometimes take a big chunk out of the good stuff. Besides, the first cut of the rough gave him more of a grass “cushionâ€? to work with.) To my delight, he began hitting the ball solidly about every nine or ten swings — and when he nailed one, he nailed one. His reaction was visceral: the first few times he got a ball to soar more than fifty yards or so, he practically doubled over with glee. “How did that feel?â€? I asked after one of his better shots. “Great!â€? he said. “Yeah, it’s funny, isn’t it?â€? I replied. “When you hit it just right, it’s pretty cool.â€? “Way cool,â€? he said, and I began to think I had a golfer on my hands. Toward the end of the summer, I let him play a few balls tee to green, and I was very impressed: for one thing, he managed to get the ball onto the green in about ten or twelve strokes, and then he would three- or four-putt pretty reliably (he occasionally hit a few nice 12-footers, which led to more doubling over with glee). For another thing, he insisted on playing the ball down: after a while, he refused to let me improve his lie or kick his ball down the fairway a bit. But the most remarkable thing was that Jamie was the only golfer in the world who did not get frustrated. If he swung and missed a few times, no problem; if he shanked one or dribbled one, no problem. He would just go at it again, and every so often, CLACK! –he would get it just right.
Meanwhile, Nick has steadily gotten better at the game over the past few years as well, and now tries, quite reasonably, to get at least one par each time he plays. When he and I played nine last week, as a final before-the-eldest-child-leaves for-the-summer-sendoff, he closed out his round with an exceptionally smart par in which he refrained from trying to land a perfect 8-iron over a bunker, and took the safe shot to the fat part of the green instead — whence he two-putted from about 70 feet. Yay, Nick! But then Nick left for the summer, and with him went his clubs — the clubs Jamie had been using in his absence.
Now, because I am married to a witch (in the good sense!), both my kids are left-handed. They also weigh the same as a duck! So they can’t just use my old castoff clubs from when I was a teenager. (And who wants to hit a wood-shaft mashie niblick anyway?) So I hunted around for a bit and bought Jamie his very own clubs, 1-3-5 wood and 3-iron through pitching wedge, putter, bag, and so forth (very reasonably priced!), and this weekend we made plans to play the little par-3 nine-hole course on Saturday and the formidable carved-out-of-the-trees-and-mountains course today. I suggested that he tee off with the 5 wood, because although he has great upper body strength and can handle the longer clubs, he’s still just 5′5″ and winds up with a very flat swing plane with the driver. The first hole at the little par-3 course is 100 yards to a tiny green. I gave Jamie his brand new 5-wood, teed up the ball for him, and stepped back to watch.
We’ve played this little par-3 course before, by the way; in fact, a couple of weeks ago he and Nick and I played as a threesome, and Nick outplayed us both. That day, Jamie opened by smacking a ball 45 degrees to the left and into the gunk, but before the day was out, he had himself A Shot to Remember: a perfect 5-wood on the 120-yard 8th that soared over the green and struck the tower of the skate park behind the golf course. On the fly. And he had a few double bogeys to his credit, too.
So yesterday, with the memory of the Monster 5-wood still fresh (not least because I have reminded him of it daily since then), Jamie teed up on the first hole with his new clubs and . . .
. . . smacked a ball that started out low and to the left, gracefully drew back to center, bounced two or three times, and landed softly on the green. Past my ball, I might add: I left a wedge five yards short. And where exactly on the green was Jamie’s ball? Well, it was an elevated green, so we couldn’t tell until we got up there, but when we did, I had to teach Jamie a new golf term: “pin high.� About twelve feet away. He two-putted for his first-ever par. He picked up two bogeys in the next eight holes, too, though we kinda wilted in the humidity and needed a good cold soda (him) and water (me) when we were done.
Today, the difficult course was . . . well, very difficult, especially for a beginner. But once again, Jamie uncorked one, this time on his final drive of the day: an arcing, graceful draw with a 5-wood that wound up smack in the middle of a very narrow fairway, with about 100 yards left to the green. (I was almost in the same place, except that my ball was on the edge of a ditch.) As I stood behind him on the front tee, I simply dropped my club and applauded. “You really can’t do any better than that, Jamie,� I said. “That’s just a perfect shot.� “Where’s your ball?� he asked. “Never mind where my ball is,� I replied. “Let’s concentrate on your ball.� And his ball wound up on in four and down in three for an entirely respectable seven.
And that, folks, is this weekend’s Jamie Update. Here’s to the most patient golfer in the world! He’s a kind of amazing kid, don’t you know.
47 Responses to “The further adventures of Jamie”
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Now, because I am married to a witch (in the good sense!), both my kids are left-handed. They also weigh the same as a duck!
Sounds like a high compliment to me.
Yay Lefties!!!…
Sounds like Jamie’s more coordinated at his age than I was. I often had problems related to being left-handed but living in a world of right-handed expectations.
Awesome job, Mr. Bérubé, and congrats to the budding golfer…
Let’s make this a lefty trifecta. Clearly someone doesn’t appreciate how lefties can just naturally do well in any situation. We could’ve told you that Jamie would be a great golfer.
I’m ambidextrous, married a lefty, and somehow both of my kids ended up righties! Not fair.
Though to be perfectly honest, I think the youngest might actually be ambi. He’s just got such fine motor problems he really needs to concentrate on developing skill with one hand at a time.
Sounds like a high compliment to me.
It is indeed! The only reason we don’t have cats is that we’re allergic to ‘em. Otherwise we’d have familiars all over the place. Why, Janet can even bend all her fingers backward, being completely double-jointed. And a witch. Her eyes are two different colors, too. Once, she turned me into John Cleese.
And so long as -handedness is topic A on the thread, here are a few more Bérubé trivia: Jamie writes and throws with his right hand, but bats and golfs left. Nick is a lefty who drums right-handed; I’m a righty who drums left-handed. (I also play goalie left-handed, on the rare occasions I play goal.) Janet’s a lefty who golfs right-handed. Oh, and when Jamie bats lefty, he hits it to the opposite field. I’m a pull hitter, left-center and down the third base line. So we wind up in the same place. But it’s hard to keep track of what kind of sports equipment to buy for whom.
I’m a lefty (in that I write and throw left-handed), but I bat right-handed. I think that’s about the only thing I do with my right hand, though…
Or with my right hand prominent… Or whatever it is that’s going on with swinging a bat. Oh, and golf-wise, I can golf either lefty or righty, but I golf better righty.
Beautiful golf story. One of the most wonderful things about golf is the opportunity it provides for fathers and sons to focus together on something that is both irrelevant and riveting.
I didn’t understand any of that weird golf lingo, but I could follow the Jamie part…so I guess I understood the important stuff!
I’m left-handed, but I bat right-handed and would probably golf right-handed as well. IIRC, sports like that have more to do with eye dominance than handedness.
I also knit right-handed for some reason, but knitting is a pretty ambidextrous activity anyway.
Lovely story, MB! I was smiling all the way through!
One of the most wonderful things about golf is the opportunity it provides for fathers and sons to focus together on something that is both irrelevant and riveting.
Well, I’d be just as happy golfing with Janet and daughters, if we’d had daughters. But hitting great 5-woods is among the many things — like, say, memorizing the Beatles catalog or learning French — that I didn’t think a child with Down syndrome would do. It’s a nice surprise on both the micro and macro scales.
I always enjoy a good episode of the Jamie chronicles, and salute his ungolfsmanlike sportsmanship and patient unfrustration. But this golf thing…meh. I still don’t see the appeal. (That could be my crappy hand-eye coordination talking.) If only Jamie did get riled up on the course–then he could curse in French.
What’s wrong with a good old wood-shaft mashie niblick anyway? Chop off the wood part, slap it on the grill for a minute or two, and it’s delicious.
I am strictly right-handed. It was convenient back when I was a wee one and our school had right-handed desks only (you know, the chair and the side-pod of desk-top), although my lefty brother struggled.
But now being right-handed feels so bland. I’m vaguely ashamed. I am going to add left-handedness (with ambi tendencies) to my list of Perfect Person components. So far, my Perfect Person is a gay Jewish Canadian leftist left-handed librarian.
Hi to Jamie. When he starts conducting Patience Seminars, sign me up.
I understand none of that golf talk. I understand none of golf. I don’t understand why anyone understands golf, as I don’t understand why golf. But I read the whole thing, because: Yay, Jamie! Just trying to watch golf on TV makes me impatient, much less trying to hit that ridiculous little ball with that ridiculous little club-head. But I’m not surprised that Jamie has more patience than I do. As one of Jamie’s legion of admirers, thanks for the update.
Fine motor skills (writing, drawing, crochet) left hand. Arm work (throwing, hammering) right side. Catch, either hand. Fence, left handed, but can switch to right for fun, no problem. A fairly complicated test of reflexes, visual information gathering, etc, got me labeled ambidextrious by a friend in college.
Golf on TV makes no sense. But playing the game, Orange, is like working out a good crossword puzzle.
And watching crossword puzzles on TV — now that’s intense.
I’m so intensely right handed it freaks me out. It’s like the entire left side of my body is 1/10 as useful.
My dad and brother are both lefties; Mom and my sister and I are righties.
When I was a kid, I wanted desperately to be like Pres. Garfield, who was ambidextrous and (I vaguely recall) could write in Latin with one hand and in Greek with the other.
Also: yay Jamie! That’s pretty damn impressive. (Says the girl who knows nothing of golf.)
Maud:
Re: Golf
Old BC cartoon:
Woman (learning how to play): “Lemme see now. The fewer times I hit the ball, the better I’m doing, right?
Man (coach): That’s right.
Woman: So why do it at all?
—or—
“Golf, a perfectly good walk in the country, ruined.”
W.S. Churchill
I totally use my “wrong” leg to do kicking breaks in Tang Soo Do. It is the cool and happenin’ thing to do!
I wiped out learning Dwi Dollyo Cha Gi (Spin Back Kick), but fortunately I didn’t dislocate anything doing it. I did bruise my tailbone bad enough that I had to waddle everywehere I went for about a week and a half, though. I do not like kicks where I have to turn my back on the kick-ee for even a split second, because I am 98% sure I am slow enough that this would cause my death in an actual fight.
We had our son in golf lessons for three years and at the end of the last year, he declared that he had had enough because “golf is evil.” My son, at ten, he had already learned what it takes most golfers a lifetime to learn, I am so proud.
“Golf, a perfectly good walk in the country, ruined.�
W.S. Churchill
I think that was Mark Twain…
DiscGrace, I don’t understand why any kicks involve turning your back on the kickee. It makes less sense to me than watching golf on TV. But then, I’m only taking tang soo do in order to accompany Jamie and help him out. If they tell me to spin, I will spin.
“Golf, a perfectly good walk in the country, ruined.�
W.S. Churchill
I think that was Mark Twain…
You’re both wrong. It was in fact Old Tom Morris, seventeen-time winner of the British Open between 1640 and 1659 (though the field was kind of depleted because of the Revolution; still, Morris once defeated Cromwell 9 and
. But Churchill is famous for saying “if you can’t draw the ball to the left at twenty you have no swing; if you can’t fade the ball to the right at forty you have no brain.”
Hey, I didn’t think there were many golf fans at Pandagon — but comparing golf to Dick Cheney, Hawise? That’s a bit much. For the record, I began playing on New York City’s municipal courses at the age of 13. In the late 1970s, an under-18 golfer with a youth permit (issued by the Department of Parks) could play any one of NYC’s thirteen courses for a dollar. I am not making this up. Bus fare back then was 50 cents, so I usually had myself a day’s wholesome entertainment for $2. Municipal golf really isn’t your country-club kinda experience. (That aspect of golf still creeps me out.) The near-impossible hand-eye coordination and long-term concentration, though, is a good challenge for an impressionable teen. Although hockey’s still better.
My dad always referred to gol as pasture pool shooting.
golf, that is!
i know i shouldn’t be shocked to learn about your connection to central IL, having been born in ottawa, and then growing up in monticello, IL (now in DC), i can’t be but pleasantly surprised to see that the corn and soybeans can produce great minds
JackGoff:
You’re right of course. I was misremembering it as this Winston witticism:
“Golf is a game whose aim is to hit a very small ball into an even smaller hole, with weapons singularly ill-designed for the purpose.�
You’re both wrong. It was in fact Old Tom Morris, seventeen-time winner of the British Open between 1640 and 1659 (though the field was kind of depleted because of the Revolution; still, Morris once defeated Cromwell 9 and
. But Churchill is famous for saying “if you can’t draw the ball to the left at twenty you have no swing; if you can’t fade the ball to the right at forty you have no brain.�
*snort*
Go, Young J. Bérubé! w00t!
Once, she turned me into John Cleese.
You got better. Well, younger and shorter, which aren’t necessarily bad things.
If they tell me to spin, I will spin.
A job at Fox News is waiting.
I’m left-handed, but thanks to my upbringing, I tie my shoelaces in an upside-down combination of left-handed and right-handed. This is why my shoelaces are so often untied. That, and a lack of upper-body strength.
Thanks for the update & yay, Jamie!
Also, turning people into John Cleese is way better than turning them into toads. I find that when I’ve turned people into toads, nobody can tell the difference between that and their original state, though I suspect it’s because their inner-toadness had always been pretty close to the surface.
“our school had right-handed desks only (you know, the chair and the side-pod of desk-top)… ”
There is a name for those things; they are called “tablet chairs.”
For some reason I was very excited to have learned that a few years back. There, I said it.
It was my son who decided that it was evil, and as a a boy descended from a long line of Scots, it really is his call. He is left handed as well and it took awhile to get him equiped. He took lessons at the municipal course in Montreal, 9 par three holes accessible by bus and the lesson were $10 for 10 lessons.
I don’t think that he was deliberately comparing Cheney and golf but he used to call Karen Hughes the ‘Evil One’ whenever she was on TV.
Oh, I was just messin’ witchuz, Hawise. After all, golf is evil, in a way. Then again, it seems to be played most seriously in the countries that take rock and roll most seriously (the English-speaking nations plus Scandinavia and Japan), but I do not know what to make of this politically.
I blame the Scots in the British military and the Scottish mercenaries, it is just something in the blood and there is a little bit of Scotland wherever you go. They seem to just like hitting things with sticks, the more obscure the thing the better.
“growing up in monticello, IL (now in DC)”
Neat trick, that — did they levitate the whole town, teleport it, or what?
Yes, I am often a complete jerk, why?
woo hoo, jamie!
Good for Jamie. I gave up the game when my 90-degree slice proved incurable. It just got to be a pain to be pointing over at the next fairway in order to hit the fairway I was supposed to be in. I had good distance, just not in a straight line.
Yeah, but it was a lot harder to find the ball against the backdrop of the glaciers that covered the Northern Hemisphere back then.
Chris: Simple enough. With temperatures like that, they probably had blue balls.
To see better against a white background, you know.
They seem to just like hitting things with sticks, the more obscure the thing the better.
Arrrrh, but there’s nothin’ quite like Whacking Day, is there?
Randy Owens:
My father was an avid golfer, and played in all weathers. One Saturday, it was cold and snowy, and my mother couldn’t believe he was still going. She said (referring to the colored golf balls used in the snow) “How are you going to play? With red balls?” Boy, did we laugh. Her face was as red as, well, my father’s golf balls.Nice story, MB.
Michael Bérubé:
I once knew a guy who told me loved to listen to golf on the radio. When he told me that I was sure he was pulling my leg, but noooooo.What, no pictures?
I distinctly recall when I was a kid learning golf and seeing other people get mad when they hit bad shots that I thought I ought to imitate them. Terrible idea–within a few months, I was no longer pretending. Take this with a grain of salt–I have a terrible memory–but I never lost my terrible temper on the golf course until I took a few years off from the
gamesport in grad school and returned to it with a new swing and a new attitude. Jamie’s discovered the secret to enjoying golf–hope he never forgets how to have fun on a golf course.Oh, and for those who can’t imagine playing or watching golf and barely tolerate reading about it, I want to invite you all to consider blogging about it (specifically about the LPGA’s 5 biggest weeks in the second half of the season). Even about how much you hate it and everything that’s wrong with it.
Utterly off-topic, I know, but I like to think of Dick Cheney as an evil Muppet, what with the Grover-like mouth. And Slobodan Milosevic looks like an evil baby.
Crosswords on TV? Why not? They’re wonderfully cinematic.
Yeah, Michael Berube’s the bomb! I had no idea he was still blogging.