- Dr. Molly Griswold
- Dr. Molly Griswold: Okay, Roy. Well, in parlance you might understand, just kick back and let the big dog eat.
- Roy McAvoy
- Roy McAvoy: The critical opening phrase of this poem will always be the grip, which the hands unite to form a single unit by the simple overlap of the little finger. Lowly and slowly, the club head 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. There's a slight hesitation. A little nod to the gods.
- Roy McAvoy: Suppose there's this guy, and he's standing on the shore of a big wide river, and the river's full of all manner of disaster, you know, piranhas, alligators, eddies, currents, shit like that. Nobody'll even go down there to dip a toe. And on the other side of the river's a million bucks, and on this side of the river is a rowboat.
- Roy McAvoy & Dr. Molly Griswold
- Roy McAvoy: A little nod to the gods.
Dr. Molly Griswold: A nod to the gods?
Roy McAvoy: 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!
- Roy McAvoy & Romeo Posar
- Roy McAvoy: Roy McAvoy: Well, I tend to think of the golf swing as a poem.
Romeo Posar: Oh, he's doing that poetry thing again.