PERFECT STROKE--FOR THE CAR?

PERFECT STROKE--FOR THE CAR?

From Chicken Soup for the Golfer's Soul The Second Round

Perfect Stroke—for the Car?

Actually, the only time I ever took out a 1-iron was to kill a tarantula. And I took a 7 to do that.

Jim Murray

About twenty years ago, when we lived in Tulsa, Oklahoma, my husband Harold bought a new car and gave me his, a 1973 Ford LTD. It ran very well, and I had no trouble with it until one day while out doing errands.

I came out of the grocery store, sat in the car and turned the key. Nothing happened. I tried again. Silence. The car had apparently died a quiet death while I was in the store.

I went back in the store to a telephone and, fortunately, Harold was home.

“I need you, ” I said after telling him my plight.

“Where are you?”

I told him.

“I’ll be right there.”

He came, sat in the car and turned the key as if he had to prove to himself that I was right, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had started for him. I’d had this experience before, you see. But the car remained inactive.

Next he popped the hood and puttered around a bit, then opened the trunk. After rummaging around, he pulled a club out of my golf bag and tapped on one of the battery cables.

“See if it’ll start, ” he said, looking confident.

Sure enough the engine purred like a satisfied kitten.

“Well, ” I said, “in case this happens again, I guess I need to know what to do.”

“If it does, use a 5-iron.” He grinned and winked.

I’ve had golf lessons before, but never one on this particular use of a 5-iron.

All went well with the car until a week or so later when it stalled right in the middle of a busy intersection. I remained undaunted, knowing exactly what to do this time.

I popped the hood, opened the trunk, took out my 5-iron and tapped that battery cable just like a pro. I sat in the car, turned the key and the engine purred again. Several well-intentioned men had come to my aid and watched the procedure with obvious wonder. When the car started, one of the men came up to my window, grinned and asked, “Hey lady, I have to know—what club did you use?”

Marci Martin

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