Zen and the Art of Assembly

Here’s Update #1,692 on my upcoming book Getting Unstuck: Seven Transformational Practices for Golf Nerds:

We’re in the proofing stage. It’s slow going. You can’t rush it. I’ve decided upon a September release. I figure getting people’s attention in August is difficult.

This book stuff also has slowed my blog posting. That’s an excuse. And I’ve been on vacation for two weeks. Another excuse. Let’s get on with it.

A story that I’ve told myself through the years is that I’m not good at detailed things.

That includes most math, learning new board games, following directions (in the days before GPS), and finesse carpentry (mitering? Yipes!). Or becoming a “good golfer.”

About 20 years ago, we took delivery of a garage door opener. There were a million parts and, worse, it had a motor; I was immobilized with fear for days until my very smart wife said, “Oh for God’s, why don’t you ask Gord to help?”

Neighbour Gord, an engineer with an appliance company, was happy to oblige. I comfortably fell into my role as “grunt labour,” handing him things, holding things, and getting things. With Gord’s help, we got that garage opener up and working on a Sunday afternoon.

More recently, your agent came face to face with one of another of his not-good-at-detailed-things story.

A few weeks ago, I volunteered to help with “set-up” for our church’s annual outdoor mass and picnic. Typically, it involved setting up chairs and putting up tents and tables. It would be sweaty and brainless. Just my style. Commiserating with the guys is always fun too.

Upon arrival, I asked supreme commander Anna how I could help. She directed me into the church hall and explained she needed two games set up “for the kids.” She pointed to a plastic contraption that you throw rings at.

Then she pointed at a box. “I need this put together,” she said.

“Really?” I said, laughing. “The kids at the Holy Rosary parish picnic are going to be axe-throwing?”

“Well,” Anna said. “They’re made of plastic. I don’t think the injuries will be too severe. Have at it. Thanks.”

I dragged the plastic contraption on the green grass behind the hall, and then brought the box out and opened it up.

“Oh, my God.”

The box contained about 60 pieces of plastic and metal, including large and small metal blue tubes, and a bunch of black plastic corners and T-sections. I flipped through the ten pages of IKEA-style directions.

“Really?” I thought, not laughing.

I walked over to Anna, readying a pitch that I hoped would make it sound like I was confident I could put this damn thing together—I wasn’t—and that I was willing to sacrifice myself for the good children of Holy Rosary parish.

“Anna, just so you’re aware, this is a serious assembly project. It’s going to take at least an hour to put this thing together. I just wanted to check with you whether you wanted me to make this investment in time.”

“Well,” said Anna. “I would like to have two games for the kids.”

“Ok.”

The first step was to join two large rectangular pieces of plastic that looked like spare parts from the Starship Enterprise. For about 10 minutes, they refused my efforts to unify, whether I stood them up, twisted them, or laid them down.

“Really? Stuck at step #1? You really are useless.”

Then, finally, surprisingly, snap, snap, snap. The pieces joined and formed the target.

“Ok, so you’re not a complete idiot.”

According to the instructions, steps #2 through about #30 were to assemble the stand for the target. I began snapping tubes into plastic. “Here we go, this is happening.”

I stalled at Step #3. New pieces failed to fit into assembled pieces.

“What the hell?” I looked at the instructions. “Oh shit, those things are facing the wrong way.” I took everything apart and started again.

Painfully, slowly, I proceeded. Meanwhile, I watched Fernando and the guys expeditiously arranging about 75 chairs on either side of a long line of white plastic tables. I heard guy banter. Words like “Blue Jays” and “suck.”

They were having fun. Me? I was fighting off muscle cramps and thoughts that I was going to have to ask one of them to help me. To put together a kid’s game. Sheesh.

Over and over again, I stalled. Pieces didn’t fit like I thought they should, some seemed to be missing, or the wrong size. But I didn’t panic or throw the misbehaving apparatus over the fence.

I stayed with it. I kept plodding. Sometimes I looked at the instructions and noticed some nuance that had escaped me. Or it would just occur to me to try something different. Bit by bit, the apparatus grew until it appeared complete. I stood it up. Hmm, nice. Stable.

I placed the target board on it. I threw a couple little axes at it. They stuck! It didn’t fall over.

The teenage girl who would be running the game came over, and then an adolescent boy. We watched him whip the axes into the target with gusto. I mentioned to her that it was probably best that no one stand behind it.

I wandered over to the lawn where about 15 rows of chairs were set up for the mass, which was about to start. They were all occupied, and more people were arriving. I alerted Fernando and we bolted to the hall, filled a trolley with chairs, and rolled it noisily across the parking lot.

Fernando and I handed out chairs to grateful, smiling people. We made two trips. I got to sweat profusely, mess with chairs and commiserate after all.

When mass started, I stood on the church lawn behind everyone in their rows underneath a canopy of tall maple trees. The sun shone down through the leaves, little kids ran around behind me, and the sounds of the mass and the humble choir reverberated off the wooden fence behind the make-shift altar and washed over everyone.