“I’m standing on the edge of a bridge,” the panicked voice began. I wasn’t sure but it sounded like a man on the other end.

“Slow down sir. Which bridge,” I asked in calm voice, remembering my training.

“I’m not going to giveaway my location. You’ll send someone.”

“Sir, we are just trained to ask that question in case there is an emergency,” I countered.

“Would jumping off a bridge qualify as an emergency,” he said sarcastically.

“Yes sir, that certainly would qualify as an emergency.”

“I’ve stood in this exact spot before. This time I’m going to do it,” he said with what sounded like a certain degree of conviction.

“Sir, you are going to do what this time,” I asked?

“I’m going to throw them in,” he replied.

“Are there others with you that are in danger,” I questioned.

“You bet they’re in danger—big time.”

“What do you mean by THEM,“ I asked with some concern?

“I don’t want to talk about them now,” he said. And then adding, “In any case, they’re dead to me.”

“Sir, I need your help. Who is there with you,” I stated authoritatively. I must have thrown him off balance, because this time he answered.

“You want to know who THEY are,” he said, his voice becoming more animated. “THEY are my golf clubs. And here is is something else. Based on the number of bizarre shots that I hit with them, I’d swear sometimes that they are the spawn of the devil.”

“Let me get this right. You’re standing on the edge of a bridge with the river below. You have your golf clubs with you and you are thinking about throwing them over the railing. Do I have that right,” I asked?

“I didn’t tell you there is a river below. How did you know that,” he asked suspiciously?

“Why else would there be a bridge,” I answered?

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I never thought of it that way,” his voice drifting off at the end.

“You said you were getting ready to throw your clubs over the edge of the bridge,” I said.

“Yes, I’m very close,” he said.

There was a long pause as if he were thinking, and then he added, “And I might just join them. “

“Dan” he replied.

“What’s your last name Dan?” I asked.

“I’d rather not say right now,” he replied

“That’s fine, Dan. We’ll do it your way.”

“What should I do next,” he said? “My swing has gone to hell.”

“I can help you. I’m a golf professional,” I said.

“Come on. You’re a switchboard operator,” he said with a measure of doubt in his voice.

“I’m only doing this part-time. I’ve been teaching the game for more than 40 years,” I explained.

“How lucky does that make me,” he said with just the slightest hint of optimism in his voice.

“Dan, I want you to stay in contact with me. Do not hang up. Can you do that for me,” I asked? I sensed that something was missing in his life: maybe a meaningful connection, another person who cared both about him — and, of course, his golf clubs.

“Yes, I can do that,” he replied contritely. “What should I do next,” he asked.

“Dan, I want to ask you a question. Do you believe I can help you,” I asked him point-blank.

“Yes, I think you can help me. But this is serious. Like I told you earlier—my golf game has gone to hell.”

“Yes, so you said. Would you like to hear what I think after listening to you, “ I asked?

“Sure,” he replied.”

“I think you’ve been traumatized, and because of what you’ve experienced, you‘re are not thinking clearly. There is no need for you to jump off the bridge. Now your clubs —that’s a different matter. Of course, that means that unless you quit the game entirely, you’ll have to buy another set to replace them.”

I continued, “Have they been giving you a lot of trouble lately,” I asked?

“They have dragged me through hell and back,” he answered. “Especially the driver. I’ve never driven the ball so poorly.”

“What should I do next, he asked?

“Dan, are you familiar with the phrase from the bible that says, ‘If thy eye offend thee then pluck it out,'” I asked.

“There is nothing wrong with my eyes. I have 20-20 vision,” he answered with obvious pride.

“Dan, you missed the point completely. I’m referring to your driver. I think you would agree that your driver offends you. And so, the bible is suggesting that you should ‘pluck it out,’ which in this case means dispose of it,” I explained this point as if I were his bible-school teacher.

“That wouldn’t bother me one bit,” he replied. “That club has always given me the creeps. Maybe it is possessed.”

“Could be,” I said. “Have you ever seen the head spin around in a circle,” I asked jokingly?

“Yes,” he said excitedly. “There was that one time when it came loose..”

“No, Dan. That wasn’t what I was talking about,” I replied.

“OK. What’s next,” Dan asked?

“You need to show your clubs who’s in charge. The inmates are running the asylum. I want you to take the driver out of your bag.”

“I’ve got it. What’s next?”

“How has the headcover been treating you?”

“Fine, I don’t have a beef with the headcover.”

“OK. Take it off and set it aside,” I said. “Now take the club in your right hand and wrap your fingers tightly around the handle.

“How many knuckles should I see when I grip it?”

“Dan, forget about your knuckles.”

“Where should the “V” of my right hand be pointed?”

“You can forget about that,” I replied.

“OK. Now what?”

“Wait, are you right-handed?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to lift the driver above your head and then smash it down on the pavement as hard as you can. I continued, “And if you see a black puff of smoke as it hits the ground, then it’s absolute proof that the club was possessed.”

“Really?”

“No, I’m kidding you. Go ahead now,” I said with some authority again.

“Really?”

“Just do it,” I said. “You’ll feel better,” I added.

“OK. Here goes. I’m going to put the phone down. Hold on.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said. The next second I heard a crashing sound. In a moment, he was back.

“I did it,” he said. “But there wasn’t a puff of black smoke,” he added.

“Dan, we talked about that. “How do you feel?”

“Great,” he said. “Now what.”

“Take the pieces and throw them over the top of the bridge. A sort of burial at sea without all of the pomp and circumstance.”

I could hear him fumbling around in the background. “OK. I did it. What’s next.”

“Well, the rest of the clubs just saw what you did to the driver. They are probably pretty scared thinking they’re next. I’d suggest that you put them in the trunk of your car,” I said.

The phone went quiet for a moment and then he was back. “OK. I put my clubs in the trunk. Now what?”

“Did you have any problems?”

“The 4-iron game me a little trouble. His was sticking up out of the bag. I think he was looking for a way to escape. I slapped him upside the head and he slipped back down into the bag.” he said.

“What did the other clubs do,” I asked.

“They just stood there looking. I think the 4-iron was the ring-leader,” he added.

“You may be right about that, but that’s water under the bridge, I replied.”

“Very funny.”

“Which brings up the subject of the bridge. Which one are you standing on,” I asked.

“The Mendota Bridge,” he said quietly.

“Dan, here’s what I’d like you to do next. I’d like you to climb into your car, put the key in the ignition and start driving. You are only 15 minutes away.”

“Away from where,” he questioned.

“You are 15 minutes away from my home course, which is located on 66th Street and Cedar Avenue next to the airport—Rich Acres.

“I know where it’s located. I played there once a few year ago,” he volunteered as his mood seemed to brighten.

“I done here in five minutes. I’ll meet you there and give you a free lesson. How’s that for a deal,” I asked?

There was quiet on the other end. “Are you still there,” I questioned.

“Yes, I’m here,” he said.

“What’s the problem,” I asked?

“Do you have a driver that I can borrow?”