Set alongside each other, the clubs in a typical bag look like they are proclaiming the whole spectrum of human emotion. There is the driver, blunt instrument if there ever was one, standing tall in the bag like a king. This is a creature of pure power, pure assertion, designed for a kind of benevolent violence. Wide, long, flat faced, the noisiest club in the bag, the driver is made not so much for moving with the course's undulations and obstacles as for transcending them by force. We speak of "ripping" a drive, or "crushing" it. And the driver, like the more forceful, active aspects of love, offers both the most joyous spectacles and the greatest opportunities for error. There is something tremendously mournful about a booming drive that screams straight off the tee and then curls right or left and deep into the woods. Like a great regret, the memory of it can haunt us, shame us, remain etched in our mind.

From: Passion for Golf by Roland Merullo. The Lyons Press, 2000. Reprinted without permission.

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