The ghost in the 5 wood

It was a breezy Wednesday afternoon at the club, and I found myself on the fairway, standing next to my golfing buddy, Sikka. We had been out on the course for hours, but I was in one of those slumps that takes the joy right out of the game. Shot after shot seemed lifeless, barely scraping past the last divot or veering off to settle under some irritating bush. But things took a turn at the last six holes, and I could feel a change brewing.

“Is that a MacGregor in your hand?” Sikka asked, squinting at the club I was gripping tightly.

I smiled, remembering the story behind this particular club—a 5-wood from MacGregor’s Heritage line. "Yeah, this one's special," I replied. "It was actually gifted to my old caddie, Hulo, by some Englishman. I got it off him secondhand."

Sikka chuckled. "Didn’t think you’d go in for a secondhand club."

"Well, this one’s an exception," I replied, glancing down at the club. "There’s something... I don't know... something unique about it. MacGregor has been making clubs since the 1800s, you know? They’re known for their craftsmanship. Some of their clubs are practically legends on the course."

Sikka gave me a skeptical look. "You think that old 5-wood has any of that 'legendary' magic left?”

Just then, I lined up my shot for the 17th hole, and as I swung, I felt something surreal. The club seemed to move effortlessly through the air, and the ball shot off with a clean, powerful arc. My heart skipped a beat. For the first time, I landed my third shot right on the green.

Sikka whistled, impressed. "Well, maybe there is something magical about it," he said, laughing.

I kept my eyes on the club, a strange feeling creeping over me. "You know," I murmured to Sikka, "sometimes it feels like... someone else is guiding my hand. Like the original owner, this English golfer, is helping me along. In the last few holes, every shot felt so smooth, as if he were giving me a nudge."

Sikka raised an eyebrow. "You’re saying you’ve got a ghostly golf instructor?"

I smirked, but a part of me couldn’t shake the thought. Just minutes ago, I was plodding through the course, every shot a struggle. But with this 5-wood in my hands... It was as if a long-lost passion for the game had been rekindled.

I chuckled, partly at the absurdity of it all. "Maybe, but look at the results." I gestured toward the green, where my ball sat like a well-behaved student. "I haven’t had a shot like that in ages."

Sikka shook his head, half-amused, half-spooked. "Are you serious right now?"

"Let’s just say... for these last three holes, I don’t feel like I’m playing alone." I grinned, giving the club a knowing pat, almost as though I were thanking its previous owner. "Who knows? Maybe it’s MacGregor magic... or maybe that English golfer never really let it go."

We continued onto the final hole, and with each step, I felt my confidence soar. My ground shots improved, the ball flew straighter, longer, as though drawn by some unseen hand. Sikka watched, growing more impressed—and slightly more suspicious—with each perfect shot.

As we reached the 18th green, I let out a deep breath, savoring the feel of the game that had returned to me. Sikka clapped me on the back, laughing. "Maybe you should thank that old Englishman. Whoever he was, he’s clearly not done playing.”

I glanced down at the 5-wood, feeling a strange bond with its mysterious history. "You’re probably right," I murmured. "Looks like he's got a few rounds left in him."