Golf Fore the Good

It has been raining so often this spring in south eastern New England that most of us have simply given up on seeing the sun. It’s been great weather for ducks but not for golf. So when the Weather Channel said “chance of a few showers” and the radar looked clear of any huge lurking green globs, we thought we’d take a chance and hit the links.

Rained out of our usual Friday golf match for the past few weeks, my two friends and I were desperate for some stress relief. Kids, grand-kids, job issues, health issues - the tension had pooled up inside us like the puddles in the streets. We were saturated to our very bones with everyday anxieties. After the horrendous weather of the last few weeks, a few sprinkles couldn’t deter us from our intended tee time.

The clubhouse was jammed with bodies after a men’s tournament held that morning. Already primed with a few pops, the peanut gallery was in rare form as the three of us checked in at the desk. The heckling was loud and unforgiving. “Go on; get out there! Afraid of a little rain?” We were not just the only women in sight, we were the only golfers - period - that were foolish enough to head out into the rain, trusting that the skies would clear in the short term.

It’s one thing to play golf in the rain for a scheduled tournament and quite another to head out in a downpour just for fun. There was no turning back now; our pride was at stake.

I have always prided myself on being prepared to play a golf tournament in any weather. Never once had I showed up for a rainy day match without full rain gear, wet grips, a towel, extra socks - you name it. I even learned to pack a baggie for the scorecard from a well versed octogenarian competitor.

Not so this day. Somewhat naively, I had left the house under partly sunny skies and gave no thought to rain gear. In all truthfulness, the folks on the Weather Channel had said it wasn’t going to be raining - and I believed them. Silly me.

By the time I drove the half mile to the golf course, the sun had come and gone three or four times. Cruising through the parking lot, the drizzle started up again in earnest. Somehow, operating on blind faith that the Weather Channel would actually be accurate, it never occurred to me to return home for my gear. It wasn’t like the tee was crowded, believe me. The course was wide open, awaiting any golfer crazy enough to step to the first tee.

My tee shot sailed out into the fairway, aided by the gale force wind behind it. I lofted a shot to the green - it stopped about four feet from the pin. Water already dripped off the brim of my hat as I kept my head down and stroked it in for birdie. Real life and all its troubles were already far, far behind me.

What a sight we must have been. The difference between a rain resistant windbreaker and an actual rain jacket quickly became evident. Two of us had no rain gear what so ever save for wet grips. By the time we made it half way down the second fairway we were soaked to the skin. Our third was draped head to toe in over sized Gore-Tex including a not-quite-styling bucket hat. If it hadn’t been for the pair of ever-so-fashionable Jackie-O style sunglasses she sported, she would have looked homeless. Onward we played. A fashion show, it was not.

My friend, the Jackie-O lookalike, was wielding a love-hate relationship with her pink and white striped umbrella. Every few strokes it would blow off her cart;while she chased it into a sand trap her push cart would roll off in another direction. It was like watching a crazed version of a very manic Mary Poppins. Our laughter warmed our otherwise drenched and wind whipped bodies.

The rain kept coming but it no longer mattered to us. We couldn’t get any wetter. The ranger showed up on six and just shook his head; it was nice to know someone cared about our whereabouts. We slogged on, questioning our own sanity.

As we teed off on nine the rain dialed down to a heavy mist. The ranger peered over at us from beyond the green. “Calling it quits?” he reasoned. Heck, no, we declared; we’re making the turn!

Inside, the guys were warm and dry at the bar, recovering from the soaking they’d taken in the morning’s tournament. The nice thing about playing in the rain is that the memories it makes last way longer than it takes to dry out your clothes and your clubs.

There’s something about going to war against the wind and the rain and surviving to tell the tell that offers up the very basis of gratification. It’s all about persistence - not how you look, what you shoot, how you’re dressed - and personal satisfaction. In times like these, the best of life is found in the most unexpected moments.