The scene: President Barack Obama is standing on the driving range at Fort Belvoir golf course after sundown, hitting golf balls into the gathering gloom. He is muttering oaths between swings, as he keeps hooking the ball.
Obama: Damn! All day I’ve been hooking my shots. What am I doing wrong?
Voice: You’re pulling the ball to the left; means you’ve probably got a bad case of “strong grip”. That’s the way it is with some folks; the tighter they hold on, the more success just seems to slip away.
Obama [recovering from his surprise, and lowering the club which he had automatically raised over his head as a weapon, upon being startled by the sudden appearance of a stranger]: Who…who are you?
Voice: My name? Doesn’t really matter. But if you have to have one, I’m known as Baggy Pants.
Obama: Are you some kind of instructor?
Pants: You could say that. But I’m not really about laying down rules. I’m about helping people find themselves, and one thing I’ve learned from a lifetime of observation is that every man has a swing that’s just right for him. It’s inside of him, see? Waiting to get out. Now, take you, for example. You’ve probably been going to the left your whole life long. Associating with commies and radicals and even retired terrorists.
Obama: Whoa! What’s that got to do with hooking a golf ball?
Pants: Man, your swing is you! Hanging out with all those parlor revolutionaries in college and during your community organizing days, that stuff gets in your blood, it turns everything you do into a hook. But the flag’s not off to the left. It’s straight in front of you. Whether in golf or in life – and it’s all one – you’ve got to loosen your grip a little, set aside your stubborn prejudices, and go for the flag, ‘cause that flag ain’t coming to you.
Obama [loosens his grip on the club, waggles it back and forth a few times, brings the club back, up and over his right shoulder, and swings; the ball rockets off the tee in a tremendous arc, flying a good 220 yards, dead ahead]: Wow! You’re right about my grip. Say, what are you, really? Some kind of…magic Caucasian?
Pants: Magic? Who knows? You might say that I’m here to knock a hole in The One.
Obama: Er, that should be “one”, shouldn’t it, not “the one”?
Pants: We’ve all got to play the game we were meant to play.