After listening to my friends go on and on about their experiences playing golf, I finally decided to take up golf again. Except for sporadic forays with rented clubs, I had not played golf since I caddied with my dad in the forties. He did teach me the correct grip and took me out a few times as a bona fide golfer, but good I was not. In college, I was chosen to teach the grip to the novice golfing students, but I never got to play myself.
Not owning a set of clubs, I haunted the area garage sales for a usable set. At the third garage sale a very nice set of clubs with a fairly new bag leaned against the side of the garage. Another buyer spotted the clubs at the same time, but I unashamedly raced to get there first. The tag said $15.00, the woods were made of real wood and I bought them immediately. Chagrined to see that the putter was missing, I planned a hint to the wife for an early birthday present.Then it dawned on me that besides the putter there were a few items missing. No balls or tees graced the pockets. Golf shoes could be expensive and what about that special leather glove that always hung out of the pro golfer’s pocket? Add to the list a divot smoother, a ball brush, a water bottle and a matching rag to wipe your hands on.
I got lucky with the shoes, having spotted a like-new pair on a curb for pick-up. Only one half size too large, I figured an extra pair of socks would solve that problem. Sears sold me a matching putter and Costco Wholesale had no name balls.
Carefully choosing a friend who lived far away and who also played golf, I arranged a day on the golf course. Two weeks before the date, I arrived early at the local golf range to harden up my hands for the coming game. In twenty minutes I sported two authentic golf blisters on my hand. The local pro suggested snidely that I wear gloves on both hands next time. The next day I could hardly move my arms, but bravely hid my soreness from my all-knowing wife. The balls I hit seemed to be searching for a new home, none of which landed in the same place. The wandering balls preferred bounding to my left, so I kept aiming my feet to the right in hopeful windage, eventually facing sideways to the hole. I’ve heard that a slight hook can be beneficial, but what I had didn’t fit the category. I did feel a little better when I discovered that I could retrieve a
half bucket of balls that littered the landscape a few feet in front of the practice tee. I always like to save money.
My golfing partner insisted that in order to get an unreserved spot between two bona fide foursomes, I would have to arrive at the golf course at six forty five, ready to play. That means I had to get up at five thirty to get there in time. Arriving on time, I waited in the ready area for one hour while my friend waited in the parking lot, sure that I had gotten lost or run over. At the first tee, a third duffer asked to join us and I welcomed him gladly, hoping for a free golfing lesson I suspected that I needed. On the first tee, I was warned to watch out for the stream crossing the fairway. Three strokes later, I found out that the water was still freezing cold from the winter. During the next five holes, my partner used the walking time to remind me of golf course etiquette. No talking on the green, no touching the sand before hitting the ball out of the sand trap and not to walk across the path of the stranger’s ball when taking out the flag. After I borrowed ten quarters for marking my ball, he told me that there was a button on my golf glove that could be removed for a marker.
On the seventh tee, my driver decided to hit the ground about a foot behind the ball, sometimes bouncing up to gently knock the ball off the tee and other times missing altogether. None of the unasked for advice had any effect. At the eighth hole, a club monitor raced up to me with a club I had left on the last green (my third lost club) and asked if it were possible to initiate the practice of picking up on the greens in order to speed play. I guess that fact that I had to hit three balls for one of the foursome behind us slowed the play somewhat. At the ninth hole I breathed a sigh of relief only to be informed that the next nine would be played on the steepest part of the golf course. My body felt that I had been run over by a truck so I protested a headache and begged off.
Invited to play with a seldom seen golfer relative, I scraped the mud off my irons, carefully chose eight balls with only small dents and loaded up the car. This time I wisely opted for a golf cart, and Fortified with three aspirin, I was prepared for eighteen holes. At the first tee I was reveling in the knowledge that whatever happened today would be hidden from the eyes and ears of friends and relatives alike when the golf pro asked if we would mind if he played with us. I agreed only if he didn’t laugh. On the seventeenth hole, I vowed never to play golf again. I had run over the pro’s ball with my cart.
