| 17 February 2011
The other morning, Henry, a mid-teen teenager, stopped a rally to tell me he had hormonal feelings for his best girl friend.
“You are involved?” I asked, surprised. I thought they were just friends.
“Only,” he half-blushed, “you know.” He had said nothing to me while hitting thousands of balls over two years. He had not told her, nor his boy friends, and I just realized he barely told himself of these sensations. He recently asked her to an annual school dance; she was reluctant to commit because she only had time for a quick dinner and she added, “I’ve got a shitload of homework and I’m way far behind.” At this Mexican dinner, she told him in the greatest of confidentiality - an expression of trust - that she's in love with a man six years older, “He’s in college.” Her parents, siblings and friends don't know; and, during guacamole and chips, she wanted Henry to know about how happy she was.
“Hit a few balls with disappointment,” I requested. He immediately started hitting much harder and his body got tighter and tighter. “I said ‘disappointment,’ not anger.”
“When I’m disappointed I’m angry,” he defended.
“That’s what happens when you cover up your disappointment,” I countered.
“Then what’s disappointment!?” he pushed.
“What did your body do when she said she was in love…. with someone else?” I asked.
He started to speak and I stopped him saying, “Just show me.”
His body semi-collapsed, shoulders almost on the ground, his smile dipped to a frown and his swing flopped. He knew exactly how he “felt.” He hit the next few balls with the most relaxed swing, sending a few effortlessly over the fence and onto the golf course.
“Wow,” he admitted.
“Disappointment is quite powerful – maybe you’ll save your ‘angry’ for something else?”
He realized his deep regret: his decision to not tell her of his yearning had led to his disenchantment with himself. At the dinner he did express his happiness for her and his concern for her secret life. Ironic.
The next afternoon Henry arrived at the court to hit for a half hour and told me, “At school, when we met between classes,” he more calmly continued the story, “she was distant.”
"What would inspire her to be distant? She told you her tale and wants your trust?"
He said, "She just seemed far away." And he was silent.
"Is it possible it was you? You who were distant?"
"Why would I be? I love her," he confessed.
"Well," I started slowly, "you've been silently sniffing up this tree for a while. Secretly wanting something that seemed tempting and exciting and now, without having to reveal anything about your self you find out that your sniffing can come to an end."
"So what does that mean?" he asked.
"You're free to sniff elsewhere. Conscious or not, your hormones and your sniffer now know to go to another tree. Maybe you were the distancer?"
He was listening; I could see his ears got red and his forehead creased. "That doesn't mean," he started to guard himself, "that I don't still love her."
"Not at all. You do. And you and your biology can start sniffing elsewhere for a different type of love," I repeated.
"So what do I do?" he wanted to know.
"You've made the decision to be silent for almost two years and now you know you want something more; you may even want to speak more," I offered.
"Yeah."
"Your tight lips kept you protected from both intimacy and exposure; from vulnerability and risk."
"Yeah."
"Now that you know more - especially from your disappointment - you can make a different decision with another girl."
"Shit."
“Now hit some balls as though you are experiencing a new tree each shot.”
Henry started to hit with a renewed enthusiasm; a zest that precluded the future. He hit the balls with some inconsistency, more spin, more variety of power and with his signature smile. “They don’t all go in; but it’s good to know there are a lot of trees in the forest.”
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