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.