"What Is The Golf Swing," by Roy McAvoy? Well, I tend to think of the golf swing as a poem.

Ooh, he's doing that poetry thing again.

The opening phrase of this poem will always be the grip. The hands unite to form a single unit by the simple overlap of the little finger.

Right.

Lowly and slowly, the clubhead is led back, pulled into position not by the hands, but by the body, which turns away from the target, shifting weight to the right side without shifting balance. Tempo is everything; perfection unobtainable as the body coils down at the top of the swing. Theres a slight hesitation. A little nod to the gods.

A, a nod to the gods?

Yeah, to the gods. That he is fallible. That perfection is unobtainable. And now the weight begins shifting back to the left pulled by the powers inside the earth. It's alive, this swing! A living sculpture and down through contact, always down, striking the ball crisply, with character. A tuning fork goes off in your heart and your balls. Such a pure feeling is the well-struck golf shot. Now the follow through to finish. Always on line. The reverse C of the Golden Bear! The steel workers' power and brawn of Carl Sandburg's Arnold Palmer!

Unnhh, he's doing the Arnold Palmer thing.

End the unfinished symphony of Roy McAvoy.

What's unfinished?

I have a short follow-through. It has an unfinished look.

Why?

Some say it's the easiest way to play in the winds of west Texas...some say it's because I never finished anything in my life. You can decide. But the point is...every finishing position is unique. That's what the golf swing's about. It's about gaining control of your life and...letting go at the same time.

Jeez Louise.

There's only one other acceptable theory about how to hit the ball.

Oh, boy, well, I'm afraid to ask. What's the other theory?

Grip it and rip it.