Golf Fore the Good

There are certain topics that should forever remain taboo, no questions asked. At least this holds true for those of us who are slightly superstitious - and even more so for any golfer among us who suffers irrational and undeniable fixations.

In hush-hush conversations we might hint about our experiences with UFO’s and intestinal distress, mammograms and prostate exams, but these are not subjects for public discussion. For golfers, the list of unmentionables grows ever longer with an array of other unspeakable matters.

I hesitate to even identify these issues here. Please, do not read them aloud, as they are among the most off-limits of subjects, for fear of contagion by the mere uttering of their names.

We dread the s-h-a-n-k-s. We are panicked by the mention of the yips. Less catchy, but no less damaging, we must not dip; always keep ourselves in alignment; and never, never trust a Dead Yank. Golfers have much to worry about on the course and four long hours to not think about it all.

As for myself, a strong immune system has never been part of my makeup. If there is a bug to be caught, I’ll surely get it. I am exceptionally susceptible to anything that can be caught on a golf course, real or imagined. The mere suggestion of a swing ailment can send me hacking.

As I prepared to tee off at a local Ladies’ Member-Guest golf tournament this week, a snippet of conversation floated through the air and I knew, from that very moment, that my round was doomed. In addition to the oft seen mulligans for sale at ladies’ tournaments, the lassies were touting sandies for sale. While outwardly I scoffed at the notion of needing free relief from a sand trap, inwardly I cowered. By simple allusion, the germ was planted, and like a killer virus it multiplied itself over and over in my game that day
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I went from bunker to bunker to bunker… nine in all. It was a painful affliction and no day at the beach, with the sand heavy and wet from recent rain. The more I tried to extricate myself from the traps, the more they sucked me in. There were not enough sandies for sale in the world to save my round – or my sanity.

By the end of the day I was like a jagged, tattered emery board, worn down and ragged and scratchy. Clouds of sand and dust plastered to my body, head to toe, by the hot and humid air. Nine traps. No one should be allowed to have so much fun in one round.

Still, there was something to be said for having survived the ordeal, compensation for the misery I’d suffered. The Ladies’ Tournament Committee very ceremoniously awarded to me a trophy for the player who had been in the most bunkers that day.

I am now the proud owner of a six foot shovel, beautifully painted a light grass green, delightfully beribboned and bowed and memorably inscribed with “The Sand Plow: Ladies Member Guest, 2008.”

While I love my shovel, I’ve stashed it out of sight. Just the thought of playing out of a sand trap is giving me a rash.