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.