Taking It All In

Over Memorial Day weekend, the county courses moved up the start of twilight rates to 2pm instead of 4pm, so hubby and I headed over to Fox Hollow. Temps were pushing 90 and we were walking, but we had plenty of water on hand.

At the putting practice area, there were two guys pushing balls around. I’ll call them the Burner Boys because even though they were in their late 40s, they both had full sets of TaylorMade Burner clubs. They shared our tee time, so we knew they'd be paired with us. They were trading putting tips that sounded fairly expert, so I was somewhat surprised when one Burner Boy’s tee shot on the first hole skidded straight down into the rough and stopped short of the fairway. 

To be honest, Burner Boy’s worm burner put me instantly at ease. Since the Burner Boys were riding, it meant I wouldn’t have to hurry to get to wherever my tee shot landed, as long as I could hit farther than 50 yards, which I was pretty sure I could. Actually my driving held up all day, and I was feeling pretty confident until I began to develop some short game issues.

On the fourth hole, Worm Burner yelled something to the other Burner Boy in the middle of my approach shot, and I flinched and landed in the bunker. I cursed, loudly, not directly at Worm Burner but in his general direction, so he might wonder for just a second whether he had helped cause my error, even though I know it’s silly to blame other people for making noise on a golf course. This isn’t the U.S. Open, after all, and not everyone has read Golf Etiquette 101. I also felt guilty about cursing. When other people curse on the golf course, it makes me uncomfortable, so I assume my cursing makes others uncomfortable. I resolved to try and control it, even though in the heat of the moment it seems so innately uncontrollable. After all, my parents are both short-tempered, and it’s no coincidence that the only words I know in their native language are curse words.

But I promised myself to end the profanity. One of the hallmarks of adulthood is choosing to learn new things you were never exposed to in childhood, and unlearning old things that you were.

It helped that neither of the Burner Boys cursed, no matter how poorly they played. Their chitchat was of the laid-back, self-effacing variety, e.g. “Well, I guess hitting the ball would have been a good idea.” And when I said, “I must have done okay on that hole because I didn’t curse,” the Burner Boys guffawed in appreciation. 

Worm Burner performed far worse than the other Burner Boy and I really have to admire that he never lost his good humor the whole time. After all, the character of a person is not measured by how he behaves when things are going well, but when things are sucking big time.

Plus, these guys were just glad to be outside. On one hole, they even noticed two deer huddled in the shade, blissfully munching on the grass. 

Toward the end of the round, we were all standing on the green, and the better Burner Boy paused, lifted his putter, spread his arms wide, took a deep breath and looked around, surveying the landscape and enjoying the slight breeze. “Come on now, guys, isn’t this wonderful? I’m just taking it all in.”

“It is wonderful,” I agreed.

It was even more wonderful that I managed to shoot a 97 despite a few three- and four-putts. Hubby didn’t keep score but he was happy because I promised we’d go get burgers at Five Guys for dinner.

Later it occurred to me that there were three different races represented among our foursome that day, and it brought forth the realization that while this country I live in may not be perfect, much appreciation is due to those who have died protecting the ideals of liberty that occasionally culminate in the harmonious enjoyment of such earthly heavens such as golf courses, regardless of race, color, or creed.  

On the other hand, I do wonder whether there might be more peace in the world if future conflicts were fought with golf clubs instead of guns. In my experience, golfers somehow seem to inspire their fellow players to channel aggression in a positive, non-violent way. It’s just the nature of the game.

Martha’s Place Tournament

The best thing about playing charity golf tournaments is that it makes you feel less guilty about spending four or five hours outside doing something that is ostensibly a rather nonsensical and self-indulgent activity. On Friday, I happened into another charity tournament through my hubby’s work, which was a sponsor for the annual golf outing to benefit Martha’s Place, a residential recovery program for women in Baltimore who are overcoming drug addiction and homelessness. 

The tournament had an 8am shotgun start so we were up at 6am. Luckily the venue was the nearby Pine Ridge GC, or we’d have to wake up even earlier. The format was a bramble, a variant of the scramble in which everyone in the foursome tees off, goes to the best-positioned ball for their second shot, and then plays their own ball from there. Everyone can keep an individual score, but the team score is the lowest individual score on each hole. Mulligans were on sale for $10 each or 3 for $20. We bought 6.

Hubby and I played as a twosome, since a third person who had been paired with us did not show up. At 7:45am, everyone loaded into the golf carts lined up outside the clubhouse, and we listened to the introductory remarks. I scanned the crowd and saw only one or two other women playing the tournament that day, so I figured I had a one-in-three chance to win the women’s long drive, since that was the only individual female category to win.

Not that I counted on it, because I’d been dead-pulling my drive lately. Hubby said I wasn’t extending my arms straight toward the target on the release, but I knew that wasn’t it. Perhaps it was the early morning clarity, but after the second hole, I suddenly realized what it was. In the past few weeks I’d been making an attempt to drive with my arms hanging straight down instead of reaching forward a little bit. I thought keeping my arms closer in to my body would help generate more clubhead speed. But doing this forced me to hinge my wrists more at address, so I was rotating my wrists through impact as if I were holding a jump rope, flicking them left. This caused my tee shots to go straight to the left. But once I realized it, I was able to fix it and my drives straightened out nicely.

In fact, hubby and I ended up using my tee shot as the preferred lie for 11 out of 18 holes that day. The result was a team score of 78, which wasn’t low enough to win the team title. However, I did win the women’s long drive for my tee shot on Hole 6 (the designated hole for the challenge), which rolled a respectable 207 yards on a downhill fairway. And I shot 90 as an individual, which is a new low for me, even though it was mainly due to the bramble format. As a prize, I won two ladies golf shirts, a fleece jacket, and $50 in gift cards.   

At the end of the day, I went home with lots of swag, and just a little less guilt.

Hole 6 at Pine Ridge is a downhill dog-leg right with lots of rightward slope. The trick is to aim left and let your ball go for a ride.

Rain Delay

I was supposed to play golf yesterday but it rained. It was the kind of Monday when nothing went as planned. Things got done but they weren't the things that were supposed to get done. Today, the skies started out gray and I had planned to do the things that went undone yesterday. Instead, Seri called at 8:30am and wanted to play golf. The forecast said rain but the radar said otherwise. So I agreed to meet her at 9:30 to see if we could walk on.

She and Bea had gone to the range all day yesterday and practiced while it rained and had lunch and talked shop. But they didn't get to play, so I could tell Seri was jonesing to get out there. Bea had to work today, so I could just imagine how she felt. Like a lion in a cage.

Seri and I didn't get on till 11am. We weren't the only ones suffering from a golf deficit because of yesterday's rain. Today, the weather stayed gray till the afternoon, and then the skies cleared and the big fluffy white clouds rolled in. I didn't do anything I had planned to do today. But I did get to do some things I wanted to get done. It was that kind of day. A nice Tuesday when I shot a 103 at a course where I usually score more than that.

A par 3 on the back nine at Pine Ridge.

Charm City Courses: Clifton Park

Finally played Clifton Park on Saturday. I was a little apprehensive, after hearing about Dodi’s experience playing there at twilight and getting harassed by trespassing locals from the surrounding Northeast Baltimore neighborhood. My hubby said he used to play Clifton Park often when he lived in the city and once had his golf cart hijacked by some teenage boys, but he said 99% of the time, his rounds passed without incident. Still, he advised me to leave my purse at home just to have one less thing to worry about.  

As we drove into the golf course parking lot encircled by chain link fence adorned with a tiara of concertina wire, I began to wonder what the day would bring. Fortunately, our playing partners were Jen and her hubby Todd, two of the funniest Baltimoreans I know. So whatever happened, at least there would be laughter involved.

Clifton Park is Baltimore’s first public golf course and was built in 1915 on the grounds of the summer estate of Johns Hopkins, the guy they named that famous hospital and university after. In fact, Hopkins was originally going to build the hospital on the Clifton Park site, but it was too far from the center of the city.

The grounds are well-kept for a city course. It has a new short game practice area put to regular use by the First Tee program. The putting greens are immaculate, the fairways are nicely trimmed, and the rough is tall enough to hide a ball from even the keenest eyes. The tall grass also has the stickiness of Velcro and attracts plenty of litter, leading to repetitive fairway chatter: “Is that my ball?” “No, it’s a piece of trash.” “Is that a ball?” “No, it’s a plastic wrapper.” "What about that?" "That's a leaf."

Weather-wise, it was in the mid-80s and a bright, sunny day. Perfect for golf, but after a few holes, I felt that familiar pounding feeling in my head that would soon blossom into a full-blown migraine. I also had this wicked pull hook I couldn’t shake, and the rolling fairways made it hard to find a level. But the company was fun and I did snap some nice pictures:

Looking back at the clubhouse from the end of the first hole fairway, the Baltimore city skyline looms in the distance.

Mother’s Garden was built in 1926 at Clifton Park, as a shrine to all of Baltimore’s mothers. It has undergone restoration and preservation efforts over the years.

A wide fairway blocked by a hedge running the width of it led Jen to quip, "This is kind of an equestrian layout." Fortunately, we were all able to get our balls to jump over it.

Todd noticed the grey stone ornaments sticking up from an out of bounds area and said, "There's a bunch of tombstones over there!" which led me to joke, "You mean someone left some frozen pizzas out here?"

The panoramic view of the skyline from the tee ground of the 18th. A day's work is almost done.

Safety-wise, we had little to worry about that day. Two rangers rode around all day long, keeping an eye on us tourists from the suburbs. There were a couple of holes where the fairways were bordered by rowhouses, and I could see how the proximity tempted kids from the neighborhood to hop the fence on a regular basis. But today, they were elsewhere, and except for having a nonconsensual religious service forced upon us by way of loudspeaker from a parked van, there were no violations against us.

Would I play there again? I would never say never. But next time I need to bring more water so I don’t get a dehydration headache. And my husband said I should also bring a parasol.

Red Wing Black Birdie

The demons triumphed yesterday at The Players when Kevin Na’s excruciating pre-shot routine made for a not-so-fun-to-watch reminder of what a mental game golf really is. “Golf is a game played between your ears,” so the saying goes.

For me, golf is an escape from mental demons. Only on the golf course am I free to think of nothing so insignificant as a tiny dimpled ball. Sure, I whack away at it with murderous ferocity, but my intentions are good. My only thought toward the helpless little sphere is tracking its location and shepherding it safely into a series of holes. And for about four hours, there is no Past or Future, only Now.

But other demons lurk on the golf course, and these I have no control over.

It was Wednesday noonish at Fox Hollow. Due to schedule conflicts, I hadn’t played with Bea for a few weeks, so it was nice to see her again. I met up with her and Seri at the course for a few minutes of pre-game chitchat. Bea’s big news was that she’d shot an 83 and 84 the weekend before. I was not surprised at all, but it reminded me that we’d made a pact to break 85 by the end of summer. It was only May and she’d already done it. So I had a lot of catching up to do.

Perhaps that small motivational thought helped me achieve a personal first on the first hole. After a decent 170-yard drive, I hit a straight second shot to land within chipping distance of the green. My third shot flew straight as an arrow and rolled right into the cup. That’s the first birdie I ever shot on a par 4.

The next hole was a par 3 but I was so excited I pulled my iron shot and double-bogeyed the hole. On the third hole, we had to wait a bit for the group in front of us to clear out, so I had time to notice these really pretty blackbirds hanging out in the marshy area near the tee ground. They had bright red shoulders with yellow spots on them. (My hubby the former boyscout told me later that they are called red-winged blackbirds.)

I shot a 48 on the front nine, which was not terrible in my book, but it put some pressure on me to keep my score under 100 for the round.

On the back nine, I started feeling out of sorts, even after gobbling up a six-pack of Nutter Butters. By the 12^th hole, my driver abandoned me and I was popping up fly balls for no good reason. I blew up on two consecutive holes where first I couldn’t get my ball out of the right rough, then I couldn’t get it out of the left rough. I felt completely unnerved and found myself cursing, quite loudly, in a way that embarrassed even myself.

Why was I coming so completely unhinged? I wondered to myself. I went into my golf bag and felt around for my purse. I opened it and quickly checked my calendar. Oh. That’s why. In a week, Auntie Flo was coming for a visit. It was a good thing Bea and Seri were somewhere up ahead, minding their own business, because I was ready to scratch someone’s eyes out with a wooden tee. You’ve heard of the Twinkie defense? My lawyer would have to use the Tampax defense: “Your honor, the police found a tampon in her purse. Clearly she should be considered temporarily insane by reason of pre-menstruality.”

I sighed. As soon as I realized the demons were just hormonal and not mental, I calmed down. I ended up shooting a 99 for the round. Just low enough to soothe my inner beast.

The Parasol Gang

Last Sunday, Debbie Harry and her hubby joined me and mine to play Waverly Woods, a rather nice public course not too far afield in Howard County. We had a 2pm tee time, and when we arrived, the Golf Channel Amateur Tour had just wrapped up its tee times for the day. Not that we knew this course was a stop on that tour, though it didn't surprise me, since Waverly Woods seemed like a rather upscale venue with 5 sets of tees and a well-manicured appearance.

Yardage is 4834 from the red tees, but as you know, shorter does not always mean easier. There was lots of trouble lurking on each hole, such as...

...elevated greens protected by hidden bands of rough...

...optical illusions created by stands of trees that could easily make you aim right into another fairway...

...lots of rolling hills and tough decisions about whether to lay up or go for it and risk losing your ball in a creek...

...not to mention the added pressure of a skilled  foursome of Korean women golfers marching closely behind you at every shot...

It inspired me to sketch this portrait of "the Parasol Gang." Instead of motorcycles, they strode along with their three-wheeled push-carts.

They really reminded me of some kind of gang, these women. All very petite, yet lethally good at golf. They were walking with giant umbrellas affixed to their push-carts, to shield their sensitive skin against the sun. They were outfitted in colorful and no doubt expensive high-tech gear, including arm "pantyhose." (Seri told me that it looks like those thin, nylon sleeves are shirts, but actually, they make them in a sleeves-only style that you wear like leggings, except on your arms.)

No matter how fast we played (and we were riding carts, mind you), we just couldn't shake the Parasol Gang. In my peripheral vision, I'd see them filing along the fairways to their next perfect shots, and I'd try and hurry up, but they must have known all the shortcuts between holes because as soon as we'd tee off at a hole, I'd look back and there they were, waiting for us to get far enough away so they could hit. I think they must have been magically teleporting themselves, or at least cutting through the lawns of people's houses.

I never play that well on any course I'm playing for the first time, but I didn't blow up too badly. I shot a 103, despite feeling the pressure of the parasols.

The Snack Trade

It looked to be a sunny day with a 40% chance of t-storms in the afternoon. I brought my umbrella as a rabbit’s foot against rain. Seri and I were matched up with a lone OMG (old man golfer). Weekdays before 2pm, it’s all OMGs on the course. This particular dude was nice enough to shoot from the yellow tees so we could play a little faster. I was walking, of course. Seri rode and had her insulated zip-top cooler packed with a special snack that she’d made for us – organic jam sandwiches grilled with butter. It’s hard to capture the essence of a sandwich in a picture, but I will try:

Food, and I don’t care what it is, really does taste better when someone else makes it for you. As someone who spends a certain amount of time cooking for another person, namely a husband, who thank goodness is not a picky eater but does occasionally complain about not enough salt, I really appreciate when someone else prepares food for me. Bea had once brought along an extra sandwich and gave it to me during one of our rounds. She said the sandwich was “very plain” since it was just white bread with cold cuts and no condiments, but I thought it was delicious, like ambrosia wrapped in tin foil. Also, I was really hungry and it got me through the next nine holes.

When Seri showed me the jam sandwich, I was not yet hungry, but I knew I would be after a couple of hours. Part of me thought, darn, Seri outdid me again with the snacks. You see, when I first met her, she had introduced me to packaged tiramisu cakes from the Korean store, and I followed up by bringing her packaged Italian tiramisu cakes from the gourmet grocery. Then she brought along a slew of other Korean snacks like chestnut rice cakes and teddy bear-shaped cookies, and I countered with a 6-pack of Oreos (which she devoured) and some Fig Newtons. 

But now, with this homemade sandwich-making, and a grilled sandwich nonetheless, Seri seems to have brought the snack trade to a whole new level. I don’t know what my next move will be, but I think I could work the beverage angle. Perhaps bottled iced coffee or something along those lines.

Anyway, the promise of a grilled butter and jam sandwich set the tone for the round. Knowing there was such comforting decadence in the near future, I was quite focused, despite the tiny gnats that buzzed around the brim of my hat. My driver didn’t embarrass me, my 7-wood was en fuego and even my putting wasn’t pitiful. In the end, I shot a 97, adding to the growing tally of times I have broken 100. On the downside, it was pretty hot out there in the sun, and at the end of the day, I got sunburn and a heat headache, and my golf glove smelled like a foot. But not before I got my mitts on that yummy sammy.

The 16-Dollar Tree Wedge

I finally bought a sand wedge. It's made by a company called Lynx and the retail price was $25 but I had a coupon so I got it for about $16 including tax. I took it out for a spin the other day, during Sunday twilight. As soon as I landed in a bunker, I tried it out. Unfortunately, this is what happened:

The red dashed lines represent how many swipes I took at the ball, only to have it shoot back and roll down into the sand. So much for cheap sand wedges. Hubby said I needed to open the club face. I told him he needed to close his mouth.

I did discover that the 56-degree loft on the club is useful for lobbing balls over trees, which is something not even my 50-degree U wedge could do:

In all fairness, though, I realize I need to work on my bunker technique. Either that, or keep the ball off the beach.