Golf Fore the Good

It seems almost like yesterday, but in actuality, it was nearly seven weeks ago on Easter Sunday, about as beautiful and mild an early April day that has ever graced the sandy peninsula I call home. I had sauntered down the fairway, inwardly waxing poetic about the course and the camaraderie, enjoying a most excellent foursome that happened to include one of Cape Cod’s premier amateur golfers. How blessed can one girl be, I wondered?

We holed out the last putt on nine much too soon. Filled with highbrow thoughts of a new season, rebirth and the miracles of life, I was sure I would pound out a much-overdue blog post as soon as my holiday family obligations had been met. Then–poof!–life slapped me down, and before I knew it I was waking up, exactly one week later, from the gray haze of anesthesia. As it turned out, that was only round one; what started as a fight with a very nasty appendix turned into an extended 6-1/2 week slugfest, causing me to miss the best spring we’ve had for golf in over a decade.

While the daffodils came and went, I noticed just a blur of yellow as my husband and I sped back and forth to the emergency room. First the dogwoods, then the cherry trees, burst out in white and pink blooms; I was amazed when I peered out a 5th floor hospital window and saw a riot of color where days–or was it weeks?–before, the landscape had been a mat of gray and brown. As good health began to return to my weary bones, I cautiously made my way out to my back deck, reveling in glorious sunshine. When had the red maple popped out its crimson leaves? How had I missed the unfurling of the buds of the oak and locust trees? And when, darn it, it would I be back on the golf course?

The doctor snickered when I implored, “So when can I play golf?” My husband just shook his head, knowing that no matter what the answer, I was sure to push the envelope. One afternoon, I was up and dressed and feeling halfway human. I begged my spouse to drive me to the golf course. We stood, hand in hand, on the patio off the pro shop and looked out to the first tee. The course was never more beautiful, a quadrillion shades of green velvet, prettier than any party dress a girl every owned. I soaked up its energy and went home bolstered by the good wishes of many familiar faces–faces browned from numerous rounds in the spring sunshine and warm with welcoming smiles. “Good to see you back,” they chimed. It was good to be back, if not quite on the tee box.

A few more weeks of rest and recuperation–not without its share of ups and downs–and the day finally came when I dared to nudge my husband. “How about nine holes?” I cautiously suggested. I fully expected him to rush to the garage and hide my clubs in attempt to keep me from overtaxing the tiny bit of energy I’d so newly acquired. “Sounds good. There’s nothing I would rather do.” He dialed us up a 1:54 tee time and we both grinned ear to ear with expectation. After all, he’d been right there with me through the whole ordeal; he could use a little R&R himself.

Because I live in a golf town filled with some very exceptional players, we came to find our foursome filled with two good friends who both happen to be superb golfers. Neither cared that I was currently a better candidate for the ladies’ niners than a competitive match; they knew how much it meant to me to return to the game. I couldn’t stop smiling even when my stiff muscles produced a less than perfect turn and I went all arms, over the top, dumping my ball 50 yards out in the left rough. Sure, it would have been nice to whack that first tee shot down the middle but, in truth, nobody really cared where it went. I was out on the course. It could only get better from there. And it did.

My game, like my recovery, was not without its ups and downs–certainly it wasn’t always up and in. But there were bright spots: a well hit sand wedge, a couple of smooth strikes right down the middle, a birdie putt or two. Pin high in two on the number one stroke hole, an all-uphill-all-the-way par four, with a fine lob wedge from the rough and a putt for par made my day. My stellar companions holed out a birdie or five, and one quietly sunk an eagle putt, his modesty testament to his honest respect for the game.

My husband kept his own eagle watch, eyeballing me for signs of fatigue. Adrenalin kept me going until the final ball dropped on nine. Under normal circumstances, nine is just a tease, a drop in the bucket, never enough to quell a golfer’s thirst. That afternoon, it was a sweet long draft, nectar of the golf gods. It was a reminder of all that was good about the game, a taste of the season to come. Long summer days of good health lay ahead, good for 18, 27, maybe even 36 holes. There’s really never enough time for golf but, this one day, it was just enough.

“How much fun was that?” my husband sighed, perhaps even more relieved than I that we’d arrived back at the clubhouse with me upright and intact. “It was awesome,” I exhaled as I crumpled into the car and headed home for a 13 hour nap.

And I had to ask myself again, just how blessed can one girl be?