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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781481771566 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 08/16/2013 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 512 |
| File size: | 514 KB |
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HALVED
By Daniel Crowbridge
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2013 Daniel CrowbridgeAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4817-7155-9
CHAPTER 1
Mind Over Matter
"Is it a dream? Whose dream? What's dream? Did the dream invoke itself? Did the subject create the dream? Did the subjects collectively dream themselves? Or, like my daughter said when she was four years old, '... the chicken was obviously created with an egg in it, daddy'." I said. "I got it!"
"What?" asked Tommy?
"Your golf ball", I said and pointed into the backyard of one of the houses lining the left side of the fairway.
"Oh?—I thought you solved the chicken and the egg problem," said Tommy.
"Looks like it's out-of-bounds," I said, nervously walking into the yard to get a good sight line down the out-of-bounds markers. "Then again, it might be in."
"I see," said Tommy, squinting to see the top of the ball nestled down in the lawn.
"Another pressure cooker" I said in my best invisible golf announcer's voice, "Eighteen holes to raise the blood pressure and a three-foot putt on the last hole to win, as you try to control your heart rate and breathe. That's what our side games all about."
We had been playing a side game since our college days 30 years ago.
"Focus under pressure." said Tommy.
"Both-us", I said under my breath, loud enough to get a chuckle out of him.
I knew he was hoping that I'd forgive the penalty and keep the match close; if it is out of bounds the penalty is stroke and distance. He'd have to take a penalty stroke and hit again from the previous spot. Weekend warriors don't make their buddies go back and hit again. The rounds would take 6 hours if they did.
"Looks in to me," said Tommy, looking down the line with his right eye closed. He backed off and looked at his shot. Hitting two, 190 yards out with a small tree possibly obstructing his backswing and water protecting the right side of the wide and shallow, peanut shaped green, Tommy tried to regain his concentration.
"You're in, if you line up this out-of-bounds marker with that one." I said, with my left eye closed, standing next to Tommy.
Tommy hesitated. He pulled his 5 iron out of his bag and looked at me for relief.
I didn't say a thing.
He wants me to let him off the hook, I thought. He knows the rules of our side game. If you're down, which he was, you don't have to count the penalty. It keeps the match close and increases the pressure and drama at the end. I'll let him wonder. He must know I'm not calling it out of bounds because he would have to go back and hit from the previous spot.
He plants his feet firmly into the back yard and practices his swing about 20 times making sure not to hit the branch in his backswing. He addresses the ball and takes a short, fast swing with little follow-through. The ball squirts out low and hard and scoots across the fairway toward the water.
"If not for that wicked slice it would have gone into the water." I laughed.
Tommy is a better musician than golfer. He plays a number of instruments. His handicap was down near a single digit. His recording studio and jingle royalties provide some extra cash but music lessons are his bread and butter. I fight to keep a straight face as I watch him control his anger and collect his thoughts.
"Fast backswing's a sign of a big spender!" Tommy exclaimed.
"Yah, and putting the butt of the club where your money is, is a sign of a good golfer." I replied.
We were solving all the world's problems during our morning round as usual. I had been boring Tommy with my latest theory as he pretended to listen. Tommy was a good listener, even when he wasn't listening. On the continuum of social skills from empathy to asshole, Tommy was the whole line.
I, on the other hand, am a pretentious everything. I went to Montessori school where they told me I could do everything and anything I want to, so I do. I am the proverbial jack of all trades and a master of none, a renaissance man in a period of decline. In middle school I realized that every class was teaching the same thing from different angles. I kept that in mind. It came in handy.
Fundamental things like following-through, the importance of humility and positive thinking, when I remembered to stay positive, have guided me well.
My name is Daniel Crowbridge. I'm a banker by trade but I always wanted to be a writer, even though I hated grammar class. Dissecting sentences, punctuation, dialogue and sentence structure, bored me. I use the language correctly when I want to seem well groomed or provide a good example. But I prefer to take artistic license with a good dose of rhythm over complete sentences.
My fourth grade grammar teacher taught that a metaphor is a type of analogy in which a term or phrase is compared to another term or phrase to which it is not literally comparable in order to suggest a resemblance such as; A mighty force field is by God.
I really like mixed metaphors. My fourth grade teacher didn't. We didn't get along. I mean, what's wrong with a mixed metaphor? Sure, a mixed metaphor is one step below a pun but it's a high form of communication if you get it.
If I can do anything, I can write however I want to write. That's what they told me at Montessori school and I'm sticking with it.
A mixed metaphor is more of a stretch than a pun. When you assume the author intends on mixing the comparisons by design, the twisted meaning tickles the brain like a haiku.
For example, Shakespeare's, "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players", mixed with John's gospel of Jesus "I am the light of the world.", could be expressed as the following mixed metaphor. "Mere stage players have enlightened the world."
See teachers don't like the mix metaphor because "... mixed metaphors are 'wrong'". Not wrong like hiding in a union to reduce the amount of work and stress you have to face. Not wrong like living up to the lowest common denominator instead of progressing humanity through good constructive competition. Wrong, as in unclear which is difficult to teach.
It depends on how you look at it. An open minded teacher would figure out the intended meaning of the mixed metaphor and recognize the creativity. But if your mind has been closed by years of self-centered corruption created by undue power derived from group leverage which has protected you from experiencing the self-gratification of a job well done, you'll just chastise the creative student for mixing the metaphor and go have a smoke in the teacher's lounge.
Why a mixed metaphor can't be considered a creative expression is beyond me. The grade school grammar teachers endowed with the responsibility of teaching correct language skills often forsake creativity. Great civilizations are shaped by their language and communication paradigms. Imagine a world in which grammar teachers rose to the top of their profession without hindering their pupil's creativity.
So, I asked my fourth grade teacher, "What's a hammer for?"
"What's a hammer for?" she asked.
"Pounding nails!" I told her. She didn't know anything.
"It depends on how you look at it," I said. "If you could swing freely with no guilt in your conscious, and no tree in your backswing, you would have hit a good shot Tommy."
"Yeah, right," said Tommy.
"And that's what I've been trying to tell you guys," I said. "You can change your world. They call it Human Consciousness Transference. It's like the paralyzed guy that can operate his wheel chair with the on-board computer interface or the toy helicopter controlled with your brain waves. Only I've replaced the on board computer with hyped up-brain waves created when you focus in the zone."
"Aha—aha." said Tommy as if listening.
"That 90% of your brain that you supposedly don't use is the place where your thoughts create reality," I said, encouraged by Tommy's fake interest.
"Yup-Yup," Tommy said excitedly.
"Physicists who expect this to be true haven't been able to tell anyone because it's too bizarre," I said. "Now that they can prove it, it's too powerful to share."
"Oh, sure, right," said Tommy.
"It's why you shortened your backswing and gouged out that shot," I said. "The Golf Gods live in your conscience."
"Right—Yup," said Tommy.
"That tree wasn't even close to your backswing. But, it was in your head. You were feeling guilty about the penalty. You weren't able to concentrate enough to make a good swing."
"Yup-Yup—Yup," Tommy responded as if he actually heard me.
"You get what you project in this world," I said.
"Oh sure, everyone knows that," said Tommy.
"No-one knows about the Madison kid who's running an underground youth revolution over the Internet," I said.
"The who?" asked Tommy.
"My daughter told me about him," I said. "He's trying to move the Baby Boomers to another dimension. He's planning to halve the population through some kind of physics experiment, under the guise of his Doctoral Thesis."
"K?" said Tommy as we walked up the fairway toward Joe's ball.
"The kid doesn't intend to hurt anyone. He just wants to move the Boomers to another dimension, just kind of get them out of here. Round them up and put a fence around them so they can't hurt this world any more. He sees himself as the Ubermensch, creating jobs for the younger generations through the organization of a generational revolution.
"Yeah sure, I heard of him. I need to go find my ball," Tommy said, tilting his head and furrowing his brow as if to ask, "... are you crazy?"
I have been golfing on Sunday mornings with these guys for over 10 years now. They think I'm a little off but the key attribute of a good golfing buddy is their willingness to go golfing at any time. I fit the bill. We had one thing in common; we were good-to-go golfing any time.
They're the logical type, afraid of looking foolish. Anything out of the ordinary was taboo. They didn't like to think too deeply. We lived simple, comfortable lives, happy golfing once a week at home and a few weekend golf trips with the boys.
I want to recruit their help with confronting the revolutionary Madison kid. I don't know how to tell them what we were up against. They have the ability to focus better than most and I want to apply that ability to save the world as we know it.
As the past, present and future harmonized, I figured that it would be better if they didn't know exactly what we were going to do. I figured a guy's golf weekend in Madison provided good cover.
We slowed our walk so as not to distract Joe, staring down a 150 yard approach. Sam's ball is another 30 yards past Joe's, in the middle of the fairway.
"Nothing ever seems to get into Joe's head", Tommy whispered.
"I know." I mouthed.
"He shoots 84 and can't wait to get back to the golf course and shoot 84," Tommy said just loud enough for Joe to hear, as he veered off towards his own ball.
Joe took his natural-unorthodox swing. He put the sweet spot right on the ball. Pffft—the ball rose quickly. It faded slightly at the apex and looked down, like a hawk on its prey, suspended for a moment before its descent. It landed about 10 yards short of the pin and spun right to about 15 feet from the hole.
"Nice" said Sam, walking past Joe towards his drive.
"Heads up," Tommy yelled, getting ready to hit his third shot from behind the pond on the right side of the fairway. He hit a towering sand wedge that caught the back of the green and stopped about 2 feet over, in the fringe.
We walked up to Sam's ball. Sam is a professional golfer, a perfectionist no taller than five feet six inches and 140 pounds dripping wet. He doesn't play in many tournaments anymore but he is a well-respected golf teacher. He fills his schedule at $45 per half hour lesson; one, half hour lesson per hour. He gets into teaching the golf swing and forgets about the time. Students know they are getting their money's worth. He's a talker, never the first one to walk away from the conversation and always seems to have enough time to sit and talk the day away.
Two under par here at the 17th hole, he is looking at the unprotected green from 110 yards. I like playing with Sam because I see, first hand, how good a short game can get.
Sam's, "Nice," comment to Joe was a programed response. Sam heard Joe strike the ball well, but Sam didn't watch its flight. He was so focused on his own shot that he didn't watch Joe swing. He knew by the sound of the club head hitting the ball that Joe had struck it well.
I figured that Sam was set on hitting it 3 feet left of the hole with little backspin so that the ball would bounce forward, once, about a yard and a half and roll again the same. He would hit a high shot 106 yards with a little fade, just short of the small ridge running horizontally through the middle of the green on a 45° angle; front left to back right. I had played with Sam so often that it was as if I knew what he was thinking. I had seen him execute this shot many times.
He hesitated. "Should I hit the ball over the pin onto the upper shelf with a lot of backspin," he said out loud?
"There isn't much room back there," I said, "The pin is just 12 feet from the back of the green."
Sam's ability to discard a thought without hesitation was a trick of Sam's trade. He didn't acknowledge subconscious alternatives. He usually went with his first swing thought. When it came to shot decisions Sam would tell his students, "... a bad shot committed to, is better than a good shot hit with doubt." His hesitation was unusual.
Sam walked up from behind his ball with his 56° wedge and stepped into the shot. He addressed the ball and began his swing. He didn't waste any time with practice shots on the course. He liked to play fast.
"Groove your swing on the range," he'd say. It was just a numbers game to Sam. The less time you spend between the shots, the less chance you have to think. The more rounds you play the better chance you have of obtaining that perfect round. He golfed like he did everything, fast and totally committed.
I didn't like driving with Sam because I knew how Sam thought. "The less time you spend on the road, the less chance you will be in an accident," he would say.
He never took practice swings during a round of golf because he believed that his swing was forged in his subconscious.
Sam executed that perfect compact swing and the ball floated high into the air like a pop up that curved skyward as though guided by a line of probability represented by a slacked string the length of its flight, stretched from the ball at rest to the hole. Its flight looked as if it were programmed to follow the string of probability. Slowed by the friction of the increasing gravitational probability towards its pinnacle, it dropped from a point where the expected descent was most probable. It landed where I thought he would hit it, but it bounced short. It hit high on the ridge with too much spin and kicked right, away from the hole and gained speed as it rolled down the ridge to 12 feet from the pin.
Sam fumed. He was so furious with the miscalculated bounce that he walked right up to his ball and hit it firmly into the back of the cup, out of turn, for birdie.
"Dang it," Sam said, even though that birdie got him to three under par with one hole left.
Sam's score didn't matter to him any longer. He had been bent out of shape since the 11th hole when he ballooned his drive on the par five. He was not able to reach the green in two after that drive and his perfect round had been ruined. Sam had been five under par after the 10th hole and I knew that he had begun to feel like this could be the perfect round. As soon as you think you're good you get laid on your ass, I thought.
The moment Sam thought about the possibility of a great round, his ego took him out of the present moment and he lost focus. The possibility of perfection cleared the barriers Sam had firmly placed around his mind to keep out unwanted thoughts. That egotistical thought entered Sam's consciousness and put a chink in the armor of his concentration. Drilling in the 12 footer for birdie on number 17 was the final release of the remaining frustration for his lapse in concentration on the drive at the 11th hole. Ironically it was his incredible eye hand coordination that both gave him the ability to attain and stole his chances of the nirvanic round.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from HALVED by Daniel Crowbridge. Copyright © 2013 Daniel Crowbridge. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Contents
PROLOGUE.................... vii
1 Mind Over Matter.................... 1
2 Underground Generational Revolution.................... 20
3 Karma at the 18th Hole.................... 33
4 Singularity.................... 60
5 The Banker and the Indian.................... 69
6 Projection.................... 95
7 Speed Golf.................... 109
8 Investment Booms.................... 141
9 The Oneness Test.................... 146
10 Trajectory of Life.................... 154
11 The Muse.................... 158
12 Bankers.................... 181
13 Get In The Zone.................... 199
14 The Band.................... 214
15 Non-local Consciousness.................... 230
16 Shocking.................... 248
17 Doubt.................... 256
18 Too Big To Bail Out.................... 271
19 Solving the World's Problems.................... 308
20 US Open Qualifier.................... 360
21 Fantasy, Virtual Reality & Full Knowledge.................... 378
22 Golf Trip.................... 394
23 Simyan's Lair.................... 423
24 Debate.................... 442
25 Help.................... 453
26 Closely Related Dimensions.................... 461
27 Under ground.................... 468
28 Tailgate.................... 491
Acknowledgements.................... 497