Two Thumbs Down on the Four-Wheel Cart

Finally bought a new push-cart of the four-wheel kind. Costco was having a deal on a $99 model that looked just like the Sun Mountain one that hubby and I have been eyeing all year. At 15 pounds, it is relatively lightweight, and it does open and close like a breeze. But I tried it out on the course today, and I must give it two thumbs down. Here's why:

1) The wheels only roll straight, so to roll the cart on a curve, you have to lift the front two wheels by pushing down on the handle. After doing this all round long, my triceps are actually sore. My old two-wheeler was much easier to maneuver since I just had to steer with the handle and it would go wherever I pulled or pushed it.

2) You need to kick on the brake to make sure the cart doesn't roll away. My old two-wheeler had a brake that I never had to use since the plate where the bag rests effectively served as a brake by resting on the ground whenever you stop the cart and let go of the handle. Having to step on a brake is yet another repetitive motion that annoyed me.

3) Because it's heavier and harder to maneuver, I couldn't take the four-wheeler all the way up to the collar of the green like I can with my trusty two-wheeler.

4) Worst of all, you have to push the cart. Pulling it is doable, but awkward. The thing I like about pulling my two-wheeler is that it gives me a good stretch in the arm and chest muscles, which are essential to driving the ball long and keeping the arms straight and relaxed. With the push-cart, I felt like my arms were always bent and all my upper body muscles were constantly tensed in the pushing motion. I already spend too much time hunched over a computer, and the last thing I want to do is feel like my back is hunched over a push-cart.

So, it's back to the two-wheel push-cart for me. Maybe I'll try a three-wheeler, though I have a feeling I'd end up with all the same problems as a four-wheeler. Or maybe I will just have to save up some dough for the remote control golf cart.

You Might Even Say It Glows

One thing about being of a certain age is that you get to see fashion trends come and go, and come around again. Take neon, for example. It was back in the ‘80s when neon colors like day-glo pink and fluorescent yellow were first deemed appropriate for use as apparel, as opposed to just highlighter pens. Now, thirty years later, neon is back. It probably came back last year. I am not quite sure, since I don’t really follow fashion. I just seemed to notice a lot of neon colors in stores as I walk around town these days.

Chalk it up to the power of suggestion, but lately I am finding this vibrant neon pink color appealing, so I bought a shirt in that color and wore it with a bright green vest out on the golf course the other day. Even though it’s winter already, the temps were supposed to peak in the 60s. Plus, I was golfing with my hubby and it felt like a date, so I wanted to look even more chipper than usual.

As I strolled up to the clubhouse with my hubby next to me, we heard a golf cart screech to a halt nearby. We turned to look, and the man in the cart leaned out and said, “Well, the good news is, if it snows, you’ll be able to find her!”

I looked down at my bright pink shirt and laughed. Yup, Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer ain’t got nothin’ on me.

Golf Gifts for the Gal Who Has Everything

I was browsing on Etsy the other day, wondering what they had in the way of golf gifts, and I came across these hand-painted wooden tees from a shop called WyomingCreative out in the cowboy state. The shop also makes hand-stamped ball markers with encouraging sayings like, "Just tap it in." Pretty nifty, aren't they:

Another shop called JudyCootieCreations makes hand-painted tees with whimsical little pictures of ladybugs, flowers, sailboats, and fish, which are sure to lift your spirits just before you top them with a ball and whack the crap out it.

Seriously, though, these tees are too cute to actually use, but they would certainly add a little flair to a Christmas stocking!

The Driver Wedge Game

I've always dreamed of playing a driver-wedge game, just like the pros do. That means they hit driver so long that there's only a wedge shot left to get on the green in regulation. Last week, I had a taste of this. I was playing a course that I affectionately call "the Mindf*ck Course," otherwise known as The Woodlands. It shares the same clubhouse with Diamond Ridge, where the girls and I have been playing a lot lately. I kind of dislike the 20-minute drive out there, though, because it's always just after morning rush hour, when all the big trucks are on the highway, menacing those of us in little sedans. Also, driving on the highway to get to a golf course makes me feel like I'm commuting to work or something.

But on December 1, the county golf courses dropped to winter rates, and the normally pricey Woodlands suddenly became affordable. So Bea set up a tee time there. The last time I played there was last winter with Seri, when we were matched up with a former pro lacrosse player who actually thought we were good golfers. Somehow I had parred the first two holes, and did okay till the turn, when it all went to pot.

This time, I played like crap from the get go. I've had loads of work lately, so it felt weird to be standing up instead of sitting at a desk in front of a computer. While my driver was magnificent, everything else was crazytown. Let me explain. The Woodlands is a short course, yardage-wise, but just about every tee shot is blind, so you have no idea where that ball is supposed to land once it gets over that hill in front of you. Plus, the fairways are narrow and either concave or convex, leaving you with really awkward stances and almost impossible lies from the rough. Because of this driving-into-the-unknown business, I lost 3 balls on the front nine alone.

On the up side, the course has some short par 4s that I drove to within 20 or 30 yards of the green. And it's on these holes that my wedge became very important. But my $16 wedge failed me miserably. I skulled it on almost every shot. It was so frustrating to get close enough to birdie on a par 4 and then ruin my chances with a skulled shot 30 yards over the green. Seri, who has a flawless short game, tried to explain what I was doing wrong, something about using all arms and no body turn, but I just couldn't get it. I tried to remember what I'd learned from that one golf lesson I took where Mike explained how to hit a wedge shot. But that was before I actually owned a real wedge club.

My husband thinks it's my cheap wedge. I think it's partly that, but it's mainly my technique. But I don't want to complain. I know my wedges need work. And it looks like I've got my work cut out for me.

All in the Family

The day after Thanksgiving is traditionally a very crowded day on the golf course. I managed to get hubby to agree to play with me and I was able to snag the last available late-morning tee time which would allow us to get in 18 holes before dark. We were paired with a 30-something guy and his 12-year-old nephew who was so adorable it made my ovaries hurt. The boy was small for his age, but he swung the club with a natural, child-like abandon that often resulted in shots better than everyone else’s. His uncle, on the other hand, was under the tutelage of a golf buddy, who was either a terrible golfer or giving out bad advice as a joke. When the uncle addressed the ball, it looked like he was squatting to take a poop. But he was a nice guy who explained that he only played golf a few times a year, whenever he and his family got together for the holidays. He pointed to the foursome ahead of us. “That’s my family over there. Dad, brother, brother-in-law, and my other nephew. Dad’s the real golfer because he’s retired and has the most time to play. He’s good, but he gets kind of angry if he doesn’t play well.”

As the round progressed, I could see that anger kind of ran in the family. Whenever the uncle would hit a bad shot, which was almost every time, he’d fling the club at the dirt and mutter a self-admonition to himself, such as, “Really? Again?” What was interesting was that the nephew picked up on it, imitating the club-flinging and self-flagellating comments, although not as often since he didn’t hit as many bad shots.

It didn’t help that my hubby outdrove the uncle by about 100 yards. After nine holes, the uncle must’ve cried uncle, because he shook our hands and said he and his nephew were going to switch with two other family members at the turn.

So the uncle and nephew were replaced with the uncle’s brother and the other nephew, in other words, a father and son. It turned out the father was also a pastor, and for a pastor, he sure cursed up a storm. (Call me Pollyanna, but I consider “dangit” a curse.) And he liked to use golf clubs to kick up dirt too. I asked him what kind of pastor he was, and he said “nondenominational,” which is probably why he didn’t say “Jesus” as a curse word. His son was two years older than the other son, i.e. the nephew I’d played with on the front nine. His hair was shorn close to his head, which gave him a forlorn look. He didn’t need to look so sad, since he had a decent swing. But he cursed and threw the club at the ground too, as though those learned behaviors were part of the rules of the game.

Occasionally, I’d hear a very loud, annoyed, “Goddarnit!” emanating from the group ahead, and there was really no question who it had come from. Like father, like uncle, like brother, like son.   

The Future and Other Buzzkills

A few weeks ago, when I had first gotten my new driver, I was at the range breaking it in. It had taken me about half a bucket to figure out how to hold the grip so I wasn’t pulling every shot left. I had just hit one or two perfect, straight drives that flew at and over the 170-yard target mound when I heard someone say, “For such a little girl, you got a big swing!” I looked up to see an ancient old man with a face weathered by age and perhaps illness setting up his golf bag in the stall next to me. I was annoyed at the interruption and wasn’t sure what to make of the comment, so I smiled grudgingly and forced a whispered “hee hee” giggle out of my mouth, pretending I was a shy Korean who couldn’t speak English. A frown of confusion shadowed the old man’s face, and he left to go fetch a bucket of balls.

A wave of guilt immediately overcame me, but I rushed to refocus. I hit one or two more perfectly straight, long drives, and I was pleased that the old man hadn’t irreparably broken my reverie after all. So when he returned, I apologized. “Hey, I’m sorry if I was rude before. I had just figured something out with my swing and I didn’t want to forget it.” Then I went on to babble proudly about my new Ping G20 driver and how it was helping me gain extra yards off the tee.

Being an old man, he had also switched to game-improvement drivers recently, and I listened to him explain the benefits of the TaylorMade Rocketballz and Burner clubs he’d turned to. “I can’t swing like I used to, and these help a lot,” he said.

As we returned to our separate stalls, I couldn’t help but feel a little sad. I wondered how long I had at this game till I wouldn’t be able to swing like I used to. Then again, I feel so far from the apex of my game that I haven’t yet reached the point where I could imagine lamenting swinging “like I used to.”

But I know someday that point will come. I had just graduated from ladies’ flex shafts to regular mens’ flex. I thought I could donate my old ladies’ flex G2 to someone in need. But maybe the day will come when I’d regress and need that old thing again.

I looked at the old man, his back turned to me and his head lowered, gazing at his rubber tee, and I thought, “You’ve been where I am. Where you are now is where someday I will be.”

When I had finished my bucket of balls, I left quietly without saying goodbye to the old man. I had a feeling I’d see him around again, either at the range or sometime in the future, at the big golf course in the sky. There, everyone’s tee shots will fly straight and perfect, and it won’t matter what club you use.

Driver Love

I love my new driver and 3-wood so much I sometimes have the urge to kiss them. Of all my clubs, they are the only ones I still keep the head covers on when I'm out on the course. I let all the other clubs go bare to lighten my walking cart load. But my new Ping G-20 driver and 3-wood -- well, I still keep their socks on. I've had them for a couple of weeks now and we are all getting along quite well. I've been playing Diamond Ridge, one of the longer public courses in the county, and recently I was able to break 100, shooting 97 and 98 the last two times out. This is something I've never done before at that course. I know I could do even better, but I get so excited when I hit driver and 3-wood super-long that I just lose focus on the shorter shots. This may change when I get around to buying new irons. I am lusting for the Ping G20 irons, but I am waiting to see if black Friday will bring a major price drop.

Today I hit two notable drives of 220 and 225 yards. These were on relatively flat fairways with no helping wind. My new driver does seem to propel the ball with more forward roll, and these distances were longer than I've ever hit before. It felt a bit like breaking the sound barrier.

There was one par 4 hole that is 230 yards from the red tees, but it is a sharp dogleg right that beckons the reasonable mind to aim at the bend in the fairway, rather than tee off over a large bunker and directly at the hole. Today I felt so confident with my driver that I decided to go for it. Of course, I landed in the bunker, but I was close. So close. Just a few more yards and I would have cleared the bunker easily. Can't wait to try again.

Living in the 80s

To quote that song by Killing Joke, “Ahhhhhhh….. eighties! I’m living in the eighties!”

Yeah, that’s right. I broke 90 and took home a score in the 80s. This happened yesterday at Fox Hollow. I had a 9:56 am tee time with Seri and Bea. They were both running late so we got pushed back a couple of minutes. I waited for them at the starter booth, watching as Seri meandered up from the club house, carrying her thermos of coffee and a giant Styrofoam cup of ice. Bea was still rubbing sleep out of her eyes as she strolled up from the parking lot, carrying her golf bag and a pillow to use as her seat cushion on the golf cart.

Neither of them seemed very excited to play. “Honestly, I don’t like this course. It’s so boring,” Seri said. I was a little insulted, since this is my “home” course. But I knew it was because Seri preferred the city courses, where the “better” golfers play. I looked around at the vibrant fall colors on display and thought Seri must be blind.

On the first hole, Seri landed her approach shot right into a bunker, and I said, “It’s because you said this course is boring. The golf gods are punishing you.” Bea said, “Yeah, they also think you need some bunker practice.” By now, we are familiar enough with each other to give and take a little ribbing.

So the round progressed as usual, with Seri and Bea riding in their golf cart and chatting away in Korean, and me walking solo with my pull-cart. For the most part, I was left out of the conversation, and occasionally I actually felt left out. But mostly, I felt focused on my game. I showed Seri and Bea my new driver and 3-wood, and they oohed and aahed politely. A few weeks ago, Seri told me I don’t need a new driver since I can hit far with my old driver. And by “far,” she meant farther than her. With my new driver, I was hitting a lot farther than her, and I don’t think she liked it one bit. I even hit farther than Bea a few times, but that was because Bea was probably exhausted from staying up late watching Korean soap operas on TV.

While the new driver has given me reliable distance if I can hit it well, I think the club that has really made a difference for me is the 3-wood. I can hit it 160 yards or more, and if I can land the green with it, that can save me from a risky wedge shot. From the new driver and 3-wood, I gained anywhere from 10 to 30 yards combined, and it all added up to a lot more confidence. My irons stayed true, and I parred all the par 3s except one. Even my putter behaved, and while I three-putted 5 times, I one-putted 3 times to help make up for it.

In the end, I shot an 87. This is an all-time low score since I shot a 90. Since that day back in June, I have been dabbling in scores ranging anywhere from the mid-90s to as high as 109. But today, 87 is my lowest score ever. It probably helped that the weather was unseasonably warm, with a high of 82. Yup, the 80s is good all around. And I really hope the eighties is here to stay. Until I break 80. Then it will be all about the seventies. That was a good decade too.

Fall Colors

In the fall, the rough doesn't seem so rough...

The Fitting: Take Two

Buying new golf clubs is a bit like buying a car. There are a zillion choices and no matter what you buy, it will almost surely lose value as soon as you drive it off the lot.

Last week, I booked an appointment with a master fitter at Golfsmith. I’m not sure what the prerequisites are to be a master fitter, but age is clearly not a requirement because the master fitter assigned to me looked like he just graduated high school. I will call him Master Fetcher because the one thing he excelled at was fetching the clubs I wanted to try.

He directed me to one of the hitting bays in the back of the store so I could warm up. The hitting bay is a dark room with black cloth draped on the walls. It reminded me of a bat cave. This would be fine if, like a bat, I had the ability to echolocate the ball, but since I don’t, the dungeon-like hitting bay seems ill-suited to its task. The giant screen with a cartoonish video-game image of a fairway casts just enough artificial light to make you aware that you are definitely not out playing on a sunny golf course.

I had brought my current set of Ping G2s and warmed up by hitting driver. The launch monitor tracked my first hit at 174 yards. Just about average for me. A couple of weeks ago, I had gone in there with the same club and hit 184. Then I tried a men’s Ping i20 and got 196 with it. I have always suspected that golf store launch monitors are not that accurate, which is why I made sure to bring my current clubs. At the very least, I would have a baseline to compare new clubs with.

To continue the car analogy, I prefer Ping the way some people prefer Toyota or Honda. They are well-made and reliable, and they don’t advertise with crazy gimmicks about rocketing balls or amping up speed. My current Ping G2 has 15.5 degrees of loft, and Ping doesn’t even make drivers with that much loft anymore. It has a ladies flex shaft, which my husband said is probably too much flex for my current swing speed, which has been tested at around 77 mph.

I asked Master Fetcher if I could try the Ping i20, but this time I didn’t get anywhere close to 196 yards with it. Master Fetcher said the i20 is kind of a “player’s driver” and instead suggested I try the Ping Serene, which is Ping’s new line of ladies clubs. I tried it but didn’t get great results with it either. I told him I wanted to try some more clubs with senior flex or men’s flex. I really shouldn't say "men's flex" since that term is gender-biased. Technically, it is just "regular flex." Although that term implies that women and seniors are irregular. Ah well, what can you do?

I actually had a lot of questions about shaft flex but Master Fetcher didn’t seem to be able to answer any of them. I had heard that the Ping Serene driver comes in a choice of two shafts, and I asked him to explain the difference. He said Ping Serene only comes in one shaft choice. I knew he was wrong, so at that point, I realized I was on my own in the bat cave.

For the rest of the fitting, I focused purely on distance. Theoretically, any of the newer drivers, with longer shafts and those 460cc heads that look like portabello mushrooms compared to the little cremini head on my 400cc Ping G2, should benefit me in terms of distance. But in reality this just isn’t true. I tried the clubs that promise more distance, like the TaylorMade Rocketballz and the TaylorMade Burner. I tried them in ladies flex, senior flex, and men’s flex. But they didn’t do me enough good to merit spending big bucks just to hit a few yards more.

Then I tried the men’s Ping G20 in 10.5 degree loft. I got more distance, and Master Fetcher said it went straighter for me too. So I bought it. I had been hitting balls for two hours already and I was mentally exhausted. I didn’t want to try any more clubs. I also bought the Ping G20 3-wood, since I need something on the fairway that can hit longer than my old 7-wood. It helped that the Ping G20 series happened to be on sale.

Since then, I’ve played with the new clubs twice. I am getting about 10-15 more yards on driver, and the new 3-wood has helped tremendously in making greens in regulation. Or at least it would if I could hit straighter. I still think I need some practice so I will have to hit the range.

I do think the men’s grips feel a bit big in my hands. But I didn’t think to ask Master Fetcher about it (not that he could have helped). Also, according to the Ping G20 driver flex chart, my swing speed is on the low end of the scale for the regular flex shaft. But this is something I can work on. I’d rather be inspired to rise to the level of my equipment than feel like I will outgrow my equipment again.

The bottom line is, new equipment with more recent technology is actually helping my game. I plan on going back for the G20 irons, but that will have to wait a few weeks. I'm hoping there will be another price drop soon. In the meantime, anyone want an old cremini head Ping G2?

Pinball Wizard

It happened again. I shot an impeccable 8-iron on a par 3 and landed within birdie distance from the hole. It was a busy day on the course, and there were two guys behind me waiting to tee off. They saw my awesome shot and one of them said, "Hey, have you taken lessons?" When I said I'd taken a few lessons at Golf Galaxy, the guy said, "I'm headed there right after this round!" They proceeded to compliment my swing and seemed truly in awe that such a seemingly unlikely suspect such as myself could pull off such a perfect shot.

But then I decided to come clean and confess what had happened just a few holes earlier.

I was playing with Bea and Dodi and it was a relaxed, jovial round. I wasn't doing great but I wasn't doing awful either. We approached a short par 4, one I had played many times, sometimes making it on in two, more often not. That day, for some reason, some wires crossed in my brain and I pulled my tee shot left, into the trees.

I heard the ball go "thunk" on a branch and watched where it landed, somewhere to the left. I didn't panic, since I saw that I might have a clear shot through the trees so I could gain some forward movement onto the fairway. I set up to the ball and took aim. But the wires crossed again and the ball flew left, again, this time colliding straight into a metal utility box. The ball bounced back toward me and I flinched as I saw it land to my left, just a few yards in front of me. "Well, that's some forward movement at least," I reassured myself. And I took aim toward the green, again thinking I had a clear shot.

The reality is I had no such thing, and it must have been the crossed wires that were causing me to see things that weren't there. I hit the ball and it went into the trees again, bounced off a branch, and landed even further left of the fairway. At this point, as I was walking to find my ball, I noticed that the leaves had begun to change color, it is October after all, and oh, how pretty is in on a golf course in the fall!

Once I found the ball, I took aim, this time at the flag on the green, thinking, "Hey, it's close enough, I might make it." But I didn't. Instead, my ball ricocheted off yet another tree and plopped straight down like a ripe apple, onto the tee ground of another hole! There were four old dudes standing there, and as the little ball fell among them, they jumped and jostled as if there was an earthquake going on. When I arrived on the scene, I was nervously laughing and apologizing, and they looked at me like I was just another dumb broad trying to play golf. Well, yeah, at that moment, I was, "trying" being the operative word. One guy puffed at his cigar and squinted at me with a fake smile and said, "You can hit your shot after we've all teed off."

I waited patiently and watched them all hit perfect tee shots, and then waited some more, for what seemed like a good long time, till they got in their carts and got out of earshot and eyeshot. Then I looked down at my ball and assessed the situation. The only thought that came to mind was "Hmm, I think I have a clear shot to the green." So I took the shot, call it the Phil Mickelson shot or the Bubba Watson shot, or whichever crazy player shot that's supposed to look impossible but land within inches of the hole. Except mine landed in the bunker, way right of the hole.

Bea and Dodi were standing at the edge of the green, in deep conversation. They had each made it on in two, so it seemed like they had enough time to debate the existence of God while I was trying to catch up. Their balls were poised near the cup, but they politely decided to wait till I got on before taking their final putts.

From the bunker, I got out of the sand with two strokes and took a single putt to hole out.

Boy, was I glad to hear that ball finally go into the hole. Somehow I was surprised it only took 8 shots, since it seemed like an eternity to get there. But that's the way it is with golf. Wires cross. Time stands still. And sometimes being bad at golf is as much fun as being good.

Seri’s Blasphemous Bunker Tip

The common wisdom is that bunker shots are an explosion. You’re supposed to aim for the sand an inch or two behind the ball, swing hard, and blast the sand, and your ball, out of the bunker. The problem with that, for me anyway, is that any obstacle in front of my weak arms will slow down my swing speed considerably. I lack so much upper body strength that I might lose 10 yards for each grain of sand in the way of my ball.

I told Seri about this. She is even more petite than me, but she handles bunkers with ease. She said, "I'm going to tell you my secret." And then she advised me to think of bunker shots just like chip shots off a tight lie. Swing gently, and hit the ball first, not the sand. And follow through as you would with a chip shot. If you’re in a “fried egg” situation, where the ball is embedded, this is a bit more difficult, but you can still try and hit the ball first, but let the club head stop in the sand, as if you’re hitting out of thick rough.

Next time I found myself in a bunker, I tried it. Sure enough, it worked. But like anything, it takes practice. I still try and hit bunker shots the "normal" way when I can, but for those times when I have already taken two or three swings and can't get myself out of the sand the normal way, I relax and try Seri's method and it usually works. Nice to have a secret weapon when the going gets rough out there.

The Perfect Golf Push Cart

Over the summer, I got used to "riding the wagon" because I didn't want to risk heat stroke by exposing myself to the blazing sun without a roof to duck under. Now that temperatures are falling again, I too have fallen "off the wagon." Last week, I called on Dodi, a fellow aficianado of perambulatory golf, to go for a walk, hopefully not spoiled.

We were matched up with two Korean guys who looked to be in their 30s. As the only girl in the group, I felt free of the usual air of competition since I was the only one hitting from the red tees. Guys tend to be less chatty on the course, so the quiet helped me focus, and it felt great to be out in the open, with only a few pesky stinkbugs to contend with.

I made one very memorable birdie on a par 3. The tee grounds were staggered so I was alone on the tier for the red and yellow markers, and I hit my 7-wood so pure it landed on the green and bounced to within 6 inches of the hole. Knowing my putting lately, the birdie wasn't a sure thing, but I was able to make the short putt for a glorious little 2.

The course felt longer than usual with my heavy old Bag Boy golf cart in tow. I have often thought about getting a new golf cart for walking, but I am still not sure if any of the current offerings on the market would meet my needs.

Here's just a short list of what I'd want in my perfect golf cart:

- remote control with simple voice commands (Stop. Go. Find my ball.)
- teflon-coated wheels to resist sticky clumps of mud and goose poop
- built-in laser range finder
- built-in water dispenser, coffee dispenser, and PEZ dispenser
- pop-up mini tray table for roaming picnic capability
- cup holder
- half-unwrapped granola bar holster
- iPad holder
- weight under 3 pounds
- one-click opening and closing
- car trunk footprint smaller than a shag bag
- can function as a shag bag when not in use as a push cart

It would also be nice if my dream cart came in cool colors like lime green or hot pink. But that's probably asking too much.

Shock and Awe

Played a member-guest tournament the other day. I won’t say where or with whom, in order to protect the innocent. But let’s just say it was an eye-opening lesson in the so-called rules of golf. I had been looking forward to this event for days because it was at a very nice golf course and they were serving both lunch and dinner. The swag included two golf hats and a logo-emblazoned divot tool that came with not one, but two magnetized ball markers. Plus we got some free Titlist balls, although I must say the Titlist representative was a bit snotty when I asked if they had any pink balls. “Titlist does not make pink balls, and they never will,” he said gruffly. Well, excuuuuse me!

Anyway, my partner and I were matched up with two gentle-looking older ladies who were dressed to the nines (does that expression come from golf, i.e. the ninth hole?) and wearing enough makeup to go onstage at the opera. I’ll call them Thelma and Louise and soon you’ll see why. They told us they were both 70 years old, and although they looked decades younger, they did act their age. From the way they tepidly sipped their coffees and gingerly removed the head covers from their clubs, I knew it was going to be a slow round.

I was already pretty antsy from having a second cup of coffee (note to self: resist the urge to drink coffee right before a round), and after we arrived at our first tee, I bolted out of the cart and took my first shot as the other ladies were still getting their bearings. I was in such a hurry that I pulled my tee shot way left and couldn’t recover, ending up with a bacon and egg for the very first hole!  

Meanwhile, my partner also pulled her tee shot left, and there was much confusion over whose ball was whose, since we coincidentally both played the same goddarn yellow Titlist balls, and both with the same number 3 on them! I mean, what are the odds? My partner switched her ball in the fairway, even though I said we should wait till the next hole, since it’s against the rules.

Not that rules mattered that day, because Thelma and Louise, those partners-in-crime, proceeded to break just about every golf rule I know. Thelma would regularly move her ball in the fairway if she didn’t like the lie, and if she lost a ball in the trees, she would use a liberal 5 club-length rule to replace her ball. When she lost her ball in the water, she didn’t see the need to drop inside the clearly marked drop zone, and instead dropped a few feet outside it, where the ground was in better shape.

And forget all the rules of putting! If Thelma or Louise made it to within a few inches of the hole, they didn’t count the extra stroke it took to actually hole out. They would also concede each other’s putts if they were three feet out, even though only me and my partner had the authority to give them putts. On the closest-to-the-pin hole, Louise was the only one to make the green, and even though we measured her distance as 32 feet 8 inches from the hole, she rounded it down to 32 feet even.

Throughout the round, Louise kept looking at her watch, and I wondered why, till I realized it was a laser range finder, a device typically not allowed in tournament play. She also carried about 17 clubs in her bag, which is three more than the 14 clubs you’re supposed to carry.

I was so flabbergasted witnessing all the rules-breaking that it mentally exhausted me, and I ended up shooting a giant-leap-backward 109. If I had played by their lenient “rules,” I am sure I would have scored much lower. The format was better ball, with a handicapping system that my partner and I didn’t understand. Earlier in the round, Thelma and Louise offered to take both of our scorecards and calculate the handicapping for all of us. So we never saw our “official” scores at the end. We were supposed to sign and attest each other’s scorecards, but I never saw those scraps of paper again.

At least the dinner was good. Roast beef and crab cakes with Caesar salad and green beans and roast potatoes, plus strawberry shortcake for dessert. Thankfully, Thelma and Louise didn’t sit with us. They went to go sit with their husbands instead. If I shared a table with them, I am sure I would have been tempted to say something.

Instead, I relaxed and ate my dinner, thinking none of the cheating mattered anyway since there was no ladies division for the tournament and the likelihood was the winners would all be men.

Imagine my shock when Thelma and Louise were announced as the third-place prize winners of the tournament! It wasn’t as if the two needed to break the rules; they hit the ball well and carried their own for the most part. It's one thing to bend the rules during a friendly round, but to win a tournament by cheating just seemed so pointless to me. Where is the fun in winning when you took unfair advantages to get there?

As they rose and went to receive their gift card prizes, I just shook my head and got another piece of cake. There’s a saying that goes “If you don’t play golf by the rules, then you’re not playing golf.” So that’s the first time I saw someone win a golf tournament by not playing golf. But -- if I am to believe my husband who says cheating is rampant in these ego-driven member-guest tournaments -- it probably won’t be the last.

The Tell-tale Signs of the Female Golfer

Let's say you're standing in line at the grocery. Ever wonder if that woman in front of you is a golfer? Here are some ways to tell...

The Personal Round Timer

Hubby and I had a Sunday tee time at Rocky Point this past weekend with Debbie Harry and her husband. It’s a gorgeous public course near the water, but the last time I was here, I was eaten alive by mosquitoes. This time, it was a sunny day in the mid-70s, with blue skies and not a hint of humidity in the air. The course was packed with tee times every 7 minutes. The rangers were strict too. They carried walkie-talkies, and the ranger on the first hole radioed another ranger, complaining about our husbands. “These guys are waiting too long to tee off. They’re letting their wives tee off first!” But after the ranger saw how far our hubbies drove their balls, he understood why they waited till the group ahead was safely on the green, and he rode up and apologized.

Apparently pace of play is something of a problem at this course. They even have a gadget on the golf cart steering wheel to time each round. The gadget was like a clip-on beeper with an electronic screen showing the time remaining in your round and what hole you should be on, e.g. “4 hours 35 minutes… you should be on Hole 2 Fairway.” As the round progressed, we fell more and more behind, usually not through any fault of our own.

On a tough par 5 on the back nine, we dallied a bit looking for balls in the rough and we sacrificed a couple of balls in the water. That's when we really lost ground. By the 17th hole, our personal round timer said “0 hours 0 minutes… you should be on the 19^th hole.” Well, the 19^th hole, as any golfer knows, is the bar at the clubhouse. But this being a public course, the closest bar was probably somewhere down the road. I don’t think they’d let us drive the golf carts that far.

And what if we took the personal round timer with us, would it continue to tell us where we should be and at what time? “It’s 5 minutes after your round… you should be in the parking lot taking off your golf shoes.” “It’s 7pm… you should be home making dinner.” “It’s midnight… you should be asleep. Why are you still up watching TV?”

Suppose we had personal life timers. What would they say? “You’re 17 years old… you should have lost your virginity by now.” “You’re almost 30… you should be married by now.” “You’re 35 already… you should have 2 kids and a house with a garage by now.” “You’re 45… you should have made your first million by now.” “You're 88… you should be dead by now. Why are you still up watching TV?”

Golf and life have a lot of things in common, but timing isn’t one of them. In golf, you can’t skip holes the way you can skip events in life. Can you imagine someone saying, “I think I’ll take a pass on that par 3… I just don’t think I'm ready.” Yet it is perfectly reasonable that a married woman forgoes having kids and goes straight to the golfing phase of life.

Golf has rules about pace of play. Life doesn’t. Thank goodness for that. 

A Swing Thought Probably Only a Woman Would Have

"Oooh, look at the pretty butterfly! Now, shoo!"

Some Good Eggs

On Tuesday, after a stressful morning due to some work-related agita, I met up with Debbie Harry at a local golf course for an afternoon round. It had rained a lot lately, so the ground felt the way I felt, like a scraggly, beaten-down mess. The sky was overcast, and we played under the constant threat of rain. I tried to shake my mood, but like the gray clouds, it hung around and wouldn’t blow over.

A couple holes in, we joined up with an OMG ahead of us. He was having a hard time keeping up with the two younger guys he’d been paired with, so he decided to join us instead. He was a nice OMG, with kind advice and golf anecdotes, although one time he prefaced a long putt by saying to himself, “Rotsa ruck.” I think he was trying to be funny, and given his age, I assume he was genuinely unaware that the phrase is considered offensive to some folks of Asian heritage, like myself. So I let it slide, especially since he parceled out “Nice shot!” and other compliments to Debbie Harry and me with parity. Deep down, I knew he was a good egg.

He left after nine holes, saying that’s about all he had energy for. Debbie Harry and continued on to play the back nine. My driving held up for the most part and I had two long runners going as far as 193 and 219, though I think there was a helping wind. After shooting 50 on the front nine, I didn’t think I could break my course record of 91, so my new goal was to break 100. I might have made it if I hadn’t landed in a bunker full of wet sand on the 18^th resulting in a quintuple bogey (aka bacon and egg) on the par 5. I took two shots out of one bunker, only to land in another bunker. I spent so much time in those sand pits, I felt like an astronaut exploring craters on the moon.

So the high point turned out to be back at the turn. The OMG left after the 9^th hole, but 10 minutes later, he came riding back, holding up a yellow ball. “I found that lost ball of yours,” he said to Debbie Harry. And she thanked him, surprised. Then he reached back into his cart and handed me this:

“I noticed you were playing Top Flite, and I don’t think that’s a very good ball, so I wanted you to have some of these.” I thanked him, also in surprise. Yup, he was a good egg.     

T. Rex Golf Tip

Reunited the foursome last week – Seri, Bea, Debbie Harry and me – and it was great to see how everyone had improved. That morning, I had just read an article in the latest issue of Golf Magazine where Davis Love III explains his 9 best moves. The tips were all fundamental -- keep your head behind the ball, start with your weight on a flexed right leg, keep your left arm long on the takeway -- but they were great reminders. One picture of Mr. Love reminded me of a right triangle, with his head at the vertex angle lined up almost on top of his right foot at the base.

I kept these basic in mind as I teed off throughout the round, and lo and behold, Big Bopper is back! Out of 11 countable drives (excluding par 3s and one par 4 that I pulled into the trees), my driving average was 177 yards, with none shorter than 165 and the longest one going 200 yards. Maybe it was the drier conditions allowing for more bounce and roll, but I like to think it’s my technique. I kept my left arm nice and long all the way back and through. It felt like the way you would swing a sledge hammer if you were going to hit a gong.

So, with apologies to T. Rex, here was my swing thought that day:

Keep arms long…

Bang a gong…
Get it on!

Of course, I still only shot a 98 for the round. That's because my putting still sucks. Gotta work on that.

The Opposite of Performance Anxiety

Bea and I played 36 holes yesterday. Again. It was a hot, humid Monday, and because it poured down buckets of rain the day before, the ground was drenched and the wet grass clung to our balls without letting them roll. In the couple weeks I was on vacation, I could see that Bea had gotten her drive back, rocketing 200-plus yards most of the time. Meanwhile, I seem to have lost my drive, with my tee shots landing only in the 160-165 range. The starter matched us up with a rather impressive 85-year-old guy who played from the white tees and definitely held his own. On a couple of his approach shots, it seemed like he had a remote control device on the ball, making it curve toward the flagstick like a toy electric airplane coming in for a landing. It reminded us that we still have at least 40 more years of golf ahead of us. If an OMG could maneuver the ball with that kind of finesse and ability, even with one foot in the grave, then we could do it. 

Of course, I am not quite there yet. I shot a 96 on the first 18 and was looking forward to seeing if Bea's theory about aways playing better the second time around would hold true. It turns out, at least on that day, it didn't. As soon as we started out on the replay, I realized that I was hungry and hot and worried that I should go home and do some work instead of staying out to play.

But there was one nice moment on the second round when we’d caught up to the foursome in front of us and they decided to let us play through. They were three guys playing with one gal, and from the looks of it, they were slowed down by having to stop for teachable moments with her. After they teed off on a downhill par 3, they huddled off to the side of the green like ladies in waiting.

Once upon a time, the thought of people watching would have made me nervous. It still does, on occasion. But I had just played this same hole earlier in the day and parred it, so I knew exactly which club to hit and with what kind of swing. After one practice swing, I successfully pulled off the shot and my ball landed within birdie distance of the hole. Bea also made the green, hitting a few feet farther than me, but still only a putt or two from the hole.

When we got down to the green, the three guys in the foursome all smiled and beamed. I grinned back and said something like, “Putting the pressure on us, huh?” And even though we didn't birdie, we sure made par. And they all said, "Nice pars!" and I think I remember them clapping too.

With the ease with which we appeared to par that hole, they must have thought we'd go on to do the same for the rest of the 18 holes. Little did they know I would go on to card two snowmen and a lollipop and end up shooting a pitiful, treading-water 98. But for one brief moment, Bea and I looked like pros to a happenstance audience. If only they knew.

Golf Travel

Hubby and I went away on vacation and played golf on four different courses in two weeks. I had been looking forward to a euphoric time alternating between golf and relaxation by the beach. The reality is that unless you lug your golf clubs on a plane, it’s kinda hard to play with equipment you’re not used to playing. We didn’t have time to hit the range, so it would take me half a round just to get used to the different sets of clubs I had to use. I was guessing at distances with the woods and fumbling with the wedges. It was like cooking on an electric stove when you normally cook on gas.

I felt like a fool in paradise, playing resort courses which were beautiful to look at but scarring on the golf soul. I took a lot of pretty pictures but took home terrible scores ranging from 106 to 116. While I enjoyed my time at the ocean, in terms of golf, it was not a dream vacation, and I couldn’t wait to get home to my old set of Pings. As soon as I could, Bea and I met up to play our local favorite, Fox Hollow. I shot a 98, thank goodness. Back in the under-100 bracket. 

Don't get me wrong. It was nice to get away. But when it comes to golf, it’s good to be home.

A Tale of Two Tournaments

Hubby and I just played two charity golf tournaments back to back. One was on Friday and the other was on Saturday. They both had shotgun starts requiring crack-o-dawn wakeup times. But other than that, they were very different experiences.

The format of the first one was Captain’s choice, a.k.a. scramble. I was the only woman in the foursome, which turned out to be advantageous on certain holes where the red tees were as much as 150 yards forward of the whites. We played with two guys named Guy and Jim. I think they tried to be on their best behavior for my benefit, but after about half a dozen beers, their true colors started to show. Jim started telling off-color jokes and revealed some of the "secret" men's rules of golf that I had never heard of. For example, if a man shanks a drive and hits short of the ladies tees, he has to play the rest of the hole with his wiener out.

The first place team shot a 59. We shot a 61 but so did two other teams. An odd tiebreaker involving who scored lowest on arbitrary holes resulted in the two other teams getting second and third place. The prizes were gift certificates that had to be spent in the golf course pro shop. But our team got zip. I felt a bit miffed, but at least hubby won a raffle prize (a gift card at Dick’s).

The next morning, we got up before dawn to pack goodie bags into the trunk. This was for the annual charity tournament that I have played since 2009 (when I won the trophy for Ladies Champion). After skipping 2010 because of “the injury,” I played again last year and won the Womens Longest Drive trophy.

This year, my mother was on the organizing committee, and I helped her procure and stuff items for the goodie bags. I also helped recruit players, so all of my golf buddies from the twilight crew were there (Dodi, Susanne, Jen and Todd, and Debbie Harry and her hubby) plus Bea and Seri. The rest of the field was mostly retired doctors and others affiliated with the charity.

The tournament format was Callaway, in which everyone plays their own ball and individual net scores are derived from a formula involving subtracting a number of hole scores depending on your gross score. The higher your gross, the more holes you subtract.

We had all practiced at the tourney course two weeks earlier and I shot a 108, so my goal was merely to break 100. I shot a 102, so I didn’t quite make it. All day long, my putts were skating past holes, just left or right. If my ball and the hole were cars on the highway, this would be fine, but in golf what you really want is a head-on collision.

On Hole 16, the closest-to-the-pin hole, I dunked my ball in the water. On Hole 8, the long-drive hole, I landed 15 yards short of Bea. But on a par 5 toward the end of the round, I was able to pure two 7-wood shots in a row (one over a hidden creek) and make the green in three. It was a make-or-break moment where I could have laid up to the edge of the creek with a shorter club, but I decided to go for it. And I was rewarded with a little personal glory.

After the round, we all sat on the clubhouse patio, enjoying grilled steaks with the other players. Bea won two trophies (Womens Champion and Longest Drive). I didn’t win anything but I didn’t really want to. I had helped my mom pick out the trophies, so it wouldn’t feel right if I actually won one of them.

There were plenty of raffle prizes, and Todd won a ladies putter, which he promptly gave to his wife, Jen. Seri had bought a few raffle tickets and I thought she looked a little sad as number after number was called and she hadn’t won anything. Finally, after all the smaller prizes were awarded, it was time to choose the ticket for the grand prize, a foursome at a local country club.

And wouldn’t you know it, Seri won it. I felt a rush of euphoria upon seeing Seri’s face light up when they called her winning number, and not just because I hoped she'd share the prize with me. Winning isn’t everything. But it sure is something to see.

18 + 18 = 91

It was a very golfy day. I hadn’t played golf for 2 straight weeks because it has been hot as Hades around here. Seri was away in Korea and Bea was out with back pain, so I hadn’t seen either of them for almost a month. Yesterday, the three of us met for coffee and catch-up chitchat, and today we got down to business. We teed off at 8:46am, with Debbie Harry completing our foursome. It was just like old times, except earlier in the morning. The sun was out and the humidity was high, so our energy was not the greatest. It was like the first day of school after a long, hot summer.

I wore the new visor hat that Seri had brought me from Korea. We were like two little golfers on the prairie.

The scene of this happy reunion was Pine Ridge, where I’d played a few times since shooting 90 at Fox Hollow. I have never managed to break 100 at Pine Ridge, since it’s a longer course with a higher slope rating. Today was no different, and I shot 106. After 18 holes, Bea said she was feeling warmed up, and asked if I wanted to play another 18. I was just getting warmed up, too, so I said yes, even though it meant I had to make some calls and cancel some things, including telling my hubby that I couldn’t make it to the grocery store today because my putter was en fuego.

But who cared about making dinner when my adrenaline was already pumping and my eyes had grown big, and I had that feeling you get after coming off a roller coaster ride and you want to go again, right away, before you lose your nerve. I was tired and achy, but it was nothing a big juicy hot dog and an ice-cold diet cola wouldn’t fix.

So, after Seri and Debbie Harry returned to their cars and drove away, Bea and me teed off again. And in the end, I was glad I did, because I shot a 91. On the front nine, I managed to keep it all under control and shot an encouraging 48. It looked good for breaking 100, but on the back nine, I never did worse than a double-bogey and actually birdied a par 5 and a par 3. I think it may have been my first birdie on a par 5, but I know for a fact that’s the first time I ever birdied twice in a round.

“You see?” said Bea, “it’s easy when you play all day.”
Yes, it seems easy when you play all day. The hard part is getting a whole day to play.

The Set-Up Three-Step

When you don’t taken a golf lesson for awhile, some strange things can start happening to your swing. Mine was starting to morph into the “homemade” category, with my spine tilting unnaturally away from the target and the ball creeping slowly left till I felt like I was an extra in Michael Jackson’s Thriller video.

I knew it was time for a check-up but I didn’t feel like starring in a solo lesson. On Saturdays, there is a golf clinic that offers group instruction on specific topics. I went to the one on full swing with woods and driver. It was hosted by Julieta Stack, who has a knack for making golf instruction clear and simple.

The lesson began with addressing the ball: Start with your feet together and the ball in the middle. Grip the club, stick your butt out a tad, and drop your arms till they hang straight down and the club head is behind the ball. To me, this feels like bowing forward, almost like a curtsey to a square dance partner. The rest reminded me of a simple dance step, which I will call the “Set-Up Three-Step.”

Feet together and address the ball.

Flare out the left toe.
Step to the side with the right foot.

You should end up with the ball behind the left heel and your feet shoulder width apart. Then take a swing as usual. When I tried it, it seemed like a much more natural way to get all the angles right at address, with my spine tilted away from the target and my head behind the ball, but not in the forced, exaggerated way I was doing before. And it all starts with the feet. Just like dancing.

The Longest Closest to the Pin Ever

My golf buddy Jen invited me to the annual GBBR Golf Outing at Piney Branch. It was a fun day in the sun, and they served both lunch and dinner. The 1pm shotgun start meant I didn’t have to get up at the crack of dawn, too. The format was supposed to be “best ball,” where everyone plays their own ball and records the lowest player’s score for each hole as the team score, but the starter announced something about everyone hitting their tee shots, choosing the best position, then playing their own ball from there. That sounded awfully familiar to the “bramble” format I had played recently, but I had just eaten a hot dog and was still savoring the aftertaste, so my mind was elsewhere.

Turns out that Jen and I did play the wrong format – everyone else played the “scramble” format, where each player on the team moves their ball to the best position on each stroke till everyone holes out, but they were calling this format “best ball.” Really, it should have just been “prison rules” for the tournament, with all the confusion. But that didn’t stop us from winning both women’s prizes. Jen won women's “longest drive” by blasting a 200-plus yard bullet on a long rollercoaster fairway. And I won women's “closest to the pin” with a much less impressive shot that landed 47 feet and 9 inches from the pin on a par 3. It was so far from the flag that at first I wondered if I should even mark it, but I did, mainly because I had never used one of those funky, old-school tape measuring devices that they’d left on the side of the green, and I was curious to see how it worked.

At the awards dinner, I was truly surprised when they announced my name. Jen and I both won gift certificates at the pro shop for our efforts. The toughest part was finding merch to spend it on. I must have tried on every cute top in the shop, and finally found an Under Armor sleeveless polo that fit me.

But even though I won a prize, the shot I was really proud of that day involved hitting my 7-utility hybrid brazenly through a stand of trees:

My ball shot like a rocket through two trees and skipped onto the green, rolling just a few feet over and into the rough. It was a risky shot, but it felt sublime to see my ball go just where I aimed it. And that was its own reward.

Dude Looks Like a Lady

It's hard enough to hit a golf ball wearing golf shoes. Try doing it wearing a pair of high heels. That's exactly what I did this afternoon at the High Heels for Hope Long Drive Competition benefiting the House of Ruth. The event took place at the Pine Ridge driving range. For $5 a ball or $20 for five balls, men and women alike teed up to support a great cause. Some highlights:

Hmm, looks like somebody needs to shave?

Or, maybe not.

Shoes courtesy of DSW.

Nice finish!

People lined up for the chance to hit balls wearing high heels.

Wedges don't count, but it's nice to support the charity.

Knee-highs are optional.

I brought my own shoes and didn't fall over.

I knew I wouldn't win this competition, since 220 yards was the woman's yardage to beat. But it was a novelty to try hitting a ball in heels. It's actually a lot harder that you'd think. But then again, I find just walking in high heels a tough task. Hubby was going to do it, too, but he tweaked something in his back the last time we golfed. Likely excuse. Well, maybe we can try again next year!

You Never Forget Your First Time

The first time I ever played a full 18 holes, I shot a 128. That was years ago, and I remember thinking how shooting 100 seemed impossible. But I did it. The first time I shot 100 was at The Crossings in Carlsbad, CA. Hubby and I played with a retired man and his middle-aged son, who were very nice, relaxed, chill kind of people. After we were done, a staffer at the golf course asked me how I did, and I said, “I just shot the lowest score of my life.” He looked at me like I must have broken 70 or something. Little did he know that 100 was the lowest score of my life at that time.

Today, 90 is the lowest score of my life. That’s right. I shot a 90 today, all by myself. (The 90 I shot when I played the bramble format at the Martha's Place charity tournament doesn’t count since I was assisted by hubby’s monster driving on some of the holes.) Over the past few months, I have been shooting in the high 90s, and once shot 94, but I was wondering when I would ever shoot lower than that. Turns out today was the day.

The location of this feat was Fox Hollow, which has become my favorite course. It’s where I shot a hole-in-one-last October, on the same day I shot a 99 and first broke 100. And now, it’s where breaking 90 will be my goal. My playing partners were Debbie Harry and Dodi, who are both super laid-back, good vibe kind of people. But out of sheer coincidence, the same OMG from last week joined us. He did some irritating things, including smoking a lot and marking my ball with a wooden tee, without my permission, when I couldn’t get to the green fast enough, but I returned the favor when I took the flag out of the hole on one of his long putts, and he wanted it to stay in (but really, you’re supposed to take the pin out once everyone is on the green anyway).

And, I am not ashamed to admit that I rode a cart today (or “rode the wagon” as Dodi likes to say). It is easier to play golf when sweat isn’t pouring into your eyes. Other thoughts: Driver wasn’t great, but it didn’t suck completely. I have learned when to hit my hybrid and when to leave the 7-wood in the bag. Also, even when I didn’t make greens in regulation, wedging it close to the hole and one-putting is just as good.

Here, for posterity, my scorecard:

In case you're wondering, the numbers in the first row of my scorecard are my "distances from the pin" on each tee shot. I put an X when my drive sucks so bad I don't bother recording it. Later, I subtract this number from the hole's yardage to get an approximation of how far I hit each drive. I put this number on the bottom row. The tick marks in the second row represent each shot I take to get on or near the green, unless it's a par 3 and I can keep track in my head. On par 3s, I also write "on" or "off" or "bunk" to indicate whether I made it on or off the green, or landed in the sand. 

I usually tally the front 9 before proceeding to the back 9, but today, I didn't want to put pressure on myself, so I waited till I got home to add it all up. I was pretty sure I did well (for me) since I didn't have any 8's on my card, and only one 7. 

90 is better than I expected for today. A lot better. I am happy tonight. And I will remember this day for a long time.

 

Can't Touch This

So last Friday, Debbie Harry and I hit the links. We were paired up with an OMG who I actually played with once before. I recognized his pale bare legs, saggy black socks, knee brace, and tan cap bearing the logo of the financial services company he worked for. He recognized me, also. The last time we played, I remember him asking me if I worked, and when I said I did, he didn’t have much more to say to me. I guess if a woman works, it means her husband isn't rich enough to be schmooze-worthy as a client.

Anyway, the OMG seemed cheerful enough this time, realizing that the inevitable replay with a stranger would happen in Small-timore County. A fourth person joined us, a quiet guy from New Jersey in town for a conference. He teed off from the blues, and OMG, who teed off from much shorter yellow tees was on his best behavior. Then the Jersey guy had to leave early, and that’s when OMG started touching our balls.

The first time, Debbie Harry was the victim. She hit a putt and it looked like it was rolling fast past the hole, so the OMG stuck his foot out to stop it. Now the rules of golf say that if you accidentally deflect or stop an opponent’s ball, there is no penalty, but it’s a whole different matter if you do it on purpose. In that case, the perpetrator incurs a two-stroke penalty, loses a hole in match play, or even gets disqualified. Not that we were in competition, but it’s always good practice to play as if you are. Just like it’s always good practice to have your seat belt on just in case you’re in an accident.

Anyway, Debbie Harry was polite about it and just smiled the way you’d smile at your pervy old grandpa if he tried to grab your ass. But I stared aghast at the OMG as if he had just picked his nose in front of us. Not that he noticed because a few holes later, when my ball rolled into a shallow divot, he went right over, picked it up, and tossed it a few feet away into a greener piece of fairway. I made a joke about it, saying, “Hmmm, looks like my ball was moved by an outside agency. Guess I’ll have to play it as it lies.” But secretly I was pretty annoyed.   

I don’t know what it’s like for men to play alone with other men, but somehow when women are around, all the usual rules seem to go out the window and we lose the right to play the ball as it lies. Perhaps OMG wanted us to speed up our play, or perhaps he thought he was making it “easier” on us. But making golf easier to play is beside the point. It's like making a Rubik’s cube with the same color on all sides.  

So for all the well-meaning OMGs out there, here’s some advice: Before you touch a woman’s ball, stop and ask yourself, would you touch another man’s ball? At the very least, please ask permission first.