Hole in one.

I'm not 'a golfer,' but I've shot the links a time or two with my brothers, some of whom are. And I usually discover the Zen koan that the game presents: the harder you try to nail the shot, the more likely it is you'll slice it, hook it, or most embarrassingly, barely dribble it past the ladies' tee - sometimes not even that far. Of course, practice, technique, and equipment all help - at least I'm told they do, not that I've ever tried. But at bottom is the fundamentally counter-intuitive fact that letting go will tend to make for a better swing and shot. Well, letting go figuratively that is - you don't want to brain your fellow golfers (or yourself) by letting the club fly.

Now I don't remember where I heard this golfing story, but with some considerable embellishments, here it comes again:

One day a middle-aged Zen Buddhist monk - Master Bopshong Sunim, nicknamed Bob - was playing a Master's Tournament in Florida. He was very good at the 'letting go' thing, and well, his golf skills were pretty dang sweet. He was tall and well built, especially for a Japanese man. With shaved head, saffron robe, and bare feet - he cut quite the figure. His irons were all a bit rusty - not from lack of use, they were just that old. And his driver's were actually made of wood, some of the grips duct-taped to their shafts.

It was a gorgeous day, palm trees waving, and Bob - at two points behind front runner Phil Mikelson, and one behind Tiger Woods - manages to win with a hole in one on the 18th, a par four! Phil and Tiger, seeing this, break their drivers along the shaft over their knees, and storm off the course. Bob is awarded the prize money - $2,000,000.

"What will you do with the money?" a chirpy ESPN reporter asks Bob, with a sort of knowing grin. A grin that says, why on earth would you even want that kind of money? And how about sharin' the love? He smiles wide and says, "first I will buy new drivers for masters Phil and Tiger. Sometimes we act impulsively out of anger - but so too, we all need forgiveness." "It's $2 million. What about the rest?" Chirpy asks. "Our monastery could use some work, I think. Maybe new mattresses." He scratches the bed bug bites on his hips, bows to the camera, and walks off with two young novices (who had been his caddies, walking the course carrying his bags). The three of them walk through the crowd, headed to the parking lot.

As they climb into a rented Hyundai subcompact, a woman rushes up to them. Bleach blond, halter top, a tan dark as mud - with the blond hair, she almost looked like a photo negative - and bloodshot eyes, she'd flicked a burning cigarette in the gutter before she raced across the pavement. "Master Bob, that was an amazing shot!" she blurts out, holding the door open. Bob bows his head, and smiles, his face lighting up. "But Master, I have been crying my eyes out all morning." She wrings her hands. "You see, my son, my darling new baby son, he was born with spina bifida. We have no insurance, his father left me months ago. I don't know what to do."

The monks confer in Japanese, the word 'spina bifida' bandied back and forth. Bob asks, "what can be done for the child?" "Well, the doctors at the hospital say there is no cure, but they can perform an operation that will ease his pain and suffering." She takes a deep breath. "And he'll need long term physical therapy - his whole life maybe." She wipes away tears with her wrist. More conference among the monks, then Bob asks, "how much will this operation and therapy cost?" "$930,750 for the operation. And the long term therapy - probably millions, I don't know." Her face crumples and she begins to weep heavily. "I don't know," she whispers, barely sniffing out the words, "I just don't know what I'm gonna do."

This is followed by more monk talk as the older of the two novices pulls out a purse, and counts out the remaining travel money they have: $1,647, and some coins. The monk gestures for him to put it back. Then he takes the prize check out of his tunic. The younger novice hands him a fountain pen. "Tell me please your name," he says. He endorses the check, and hands it to Sharon Conner. She thanks Bob, gives him a fat juicy kiss on his bald head - leaving a smear of bright red lipstick - then rushes over and jumps in a car idling nearby. Which immediately screeches burned rubber and is gone. Bob and the novices smile, sending prayers of lovingkindness for the mother and baby, who, even with this operation and therapy, will have a difficult life ahead.

Bob closes the door, starts to back out, just as a golf pro races up. He pounds on the hood of the car. Bob stops, and rolls down the window. "I'm sorry Mr. Bob, it was so crazy over there in the crowd - I mean that shot was amazing, first ever on that hole - I didn't see you had already left. I wanted to warn you about that woman!" The monk and novices look puzzled. "You see, she has been here before. Please tell me you didn't sign the check over to her, please please tell me you didn't!" He looks almost as forlorn as the woman had. Bob asks, "what do you mean?" The pro says, "that woman is a fraud. I don't know what story she told you, but it is just a con!" The novices look worried. Bob asks, "you mean there is no baby with spina bifida?" The golf pro is almost shouting, "no, there is no baby with - with what? - there is no baby with anything, there is no baby." He checks himself, lowers his voice. "There is nothing, I told you she is a con!"

Bob smiles, nods, says thanks, and backs out of the parking space. "Thank goodness," he says in Japanese to the novices, "there isn't a little suffering baby!"