It’s always a crap shoot. Heading up to the golf course and grabbing a spot as a single can leave you wondering why you didn’t stay home to scrub grout or clean the refrigerator. It’s possible you’d end up having more fun at home. The entire scenario gets even dicier on a holiday weekend in a resort area such as mine. Lord knows who may have dragged out their clubs for a romp on our glorious municipal fairways. From the wild, club wielding collegiate determined to play the back tees and show you just how far he can hit it (though not how straight) to the vacationers who play once a year, live for mulligans and have never heard the term “pace of play…” anything goes.
A best case scenario is that you find a few players you know hanging around the putting green and the starter pulls together a foursome and gets you straight out. There is some comfort in knowing pretty much what to expect from your fellow competitors. It’s also always a little more fun to have at least a nominal wager on the outcome of your match. Somehow approaching total unfamiliar golfers with a request to ante up makes me feel a little like a transient nineteenth century grifter appearing out of the Scottish heather. On the flip side, I’ve met too many transients without a clue as to what they hold for an actual handicap; shame on them and shame on me if I take the wager. In short, it’s tough to put a fair money match together with strangers on the first tee.
That’s not to say you can’t meet some very nice people by playing golf as a single. However, finding a complete group with whom to play eighteen holes with compatible games is fairly unlikely. I lucked out a few days ago at the start of a huge holiday weekend; or so I thought. Paired with an amicable family of three, I headed off the first tee with a modicum of certainty that I’d have an enjoyable round. And so it was for nine holes. Aside from the numerous foot wedges and that special pet peeve of mine, the let’s-not-mark-our-balls-we’re-only-going-to-putt-them-in-later-thing, most of their golf habits were benign.
But as we headed for the turn my golfing companions mentioned they would not be playing the back nine. A creeping apprehension set in as I perused the groups in front and behind us. Here I was, back to square one, single again. It felt like speed dating. A foursome in front; a threesome of transients to the rear, and I supposed as newly single I’d drop back and join the group behind me. Could it really be that bad, it was only nine holes? It would be sort of like a lunch date or grabbing a quick coffee together; it wasn’t like I was committed to dinner and the whole evening.
My circumstances took an unexpected turn at the starter’s shack. Anxious to fill the gap left by the departing threesome the starter had two walk-ons ready to roll off the tenth tee with me. What may have been a well-intentioned fix-up by a friend turned out, instead, to be a nightmarish first date.
At the tenth, I offered my hand in introduction. “Can’t shake,” said one of the men as he held aloft his right arm encompassed with a massive black brace covering his hand and most of his forearm, “ripped tendons, my first time out this year.” Two strikes, right there; this wasn’t boding well for the back nine. Off we went; pop, chunk, dump. “I can’t hit it” he filled me in (as if I couldn’t tell), akin to a nervous suitor apologizing for his shortcomings.
If the man had any sense he might have spent the day tuning up at the range, maybe hitting a few putts to see how his injured limb would hold up. I usually have no problem playing with golfers of any ability but pig-headed stupidity is another story. And the situation would only get worse.
Anyone who regularly reads my ramblings knows I try hard not to bring sexism into the mix. I write simply about amateur golf and it matters little to me if you’re male or female. Other than a few isolated incidents (ask my brother about the great southern bastion of male pride, the Grill Room at St. Ive’s), I’ve always been treated more than fairly as a golfer, irregardless of my sex. So it took me a bit by surprise when the rambling man with the brace announced half way up the twelfth “you know you’re the first woman I’ve ever liked playing golf with? I hope that doesn’t sound sexist.” He was kidding, right? I had just endured two and a half holes (and you bet I was counting) of watching this guy slap it sideways. Through gritted teeth I managed to tell him I’d take it as the compliment he meant it to be. In reality, I thanked the golf gods that fourteen would bring us back towards the clubhouse and my escape.
Holing out on the fourteenth green, I checked my watch. Slow round, it’s getting late, my dog is home alone and needs a run before dark. So sorry, I have to leave… I grabbed my bag and ran off, without so much as a good night kiss.
