Golf Fore the Good

For me, individual stroke play golf tournaments border on cruel and unusual punishment. At any given moment in a stroke play event, as a golfer, I face the unknown. Although I am fairly competent on the course, I am not what one would call a steady, down the middle player. Even when I am playing well, I never know when I might release a swing that’s pushes me over the edge into the land of doubles and triples, or worse.

I wish that I could bring the relaxed feeling I have during informal afternoon rounds and friendly matches to tournament play. I have been told that the more competitive golf I play, the more I will enjoy it. I keep trying; I’m still waiting.

Years ago, hooked up as a single, I once played a round of golf with a gentleman and his young son. The junior golfer held up well for a while, but four hours proved to be much too long a time on the course for his short attention span. The boy literally crawled across the thirteenth green on his hands and knees, apparently more amused with activity of that sort than with the golf game at hand. Things went downhill from there. Too say the least, his antics put me a bit off my game.

Boy oh boy, all that hullabaloo a few months ago around here about a woman suing to play in what have traditionally been “men’s only” golf tournaments… here it is well into the spring tournament season, and we haven’t seen that particular golfer signed up for either of two possible co-ed tournaments. Sure makes one wonder why there had to be such a fuss.

OK, so a Debbie Reynolds I’m not. I am not terrifically graceful, as one might guess from my often out of tempo golf swing. This particular day seemed in some way out of kilter as well, and therefore proved perfectly suited for me and my golf game.

The golf was hurry-up-and-wait, so agonizingly slow that, had I been playing poorly, I might have tried blaming it on the pace of play. Nor was the weather anything to dance and sing about. There was, at best, a heavy mist in the air; at worst, a light shower spitting out of the steel gray sky. Somehow, none of it mattered, wedged in as we were in the middle of the second 18 holes of a huge group of transients playing a thirty six hole tournament. It was one of those rare days that any golf would be better than no golf at all.

I was scheduled for office duty on Mother’s Day, being the only “non-mother” amongst my colleagues. Evidently, the Border Collie doesn’t qualify as a real child. Knowing the day would be quiet, with most people tied up with their own family celebrations, I planned an office picnic to mark the holiday with my parents and godmother. If I had to be working and couldn’t be golfing, at least I could squeeze in some family time.

On the day prior to my planned get-together, my aging golf friend phoned to chat. I asked if she had plans for Mother’s Day. Never having met her offspring, I am aware that one of her children lives two states away and the other a half a world away. She would spend the day alone, she said. With but a moment’s hesitation, an invitation for her to join us at our little picnic popped out. It was as natural as a golf swing – you may take that as you will.