Where Everybody Knows Your Name

I've been playing the local course so often that almost all the staff knows me by name. I guess I am not hard to miss, since I've been showing up 3 times a week. I've been playing solo, which is unusual for a woman. But I finally feel comfortable holding my own no matter who I'm playing with. I've been going out solo mainly because I really want to focus on my game, which is easier to do when you don't have the social obligation of talking to the people you're golfing with.

When you play with strangers, you can talk as little or as much to them as you want. Since the starters know me now, I feel like they make sure I don't get paired with douche bags. And the rangers always wave or stop and say hi when they see me on the course. But still, because it's 90% guys out there on any given day, I've learned survival skills such as wearing shorts instead of skorts, and mentioning my husband within the first few minutes of meeting male players. (It's kind of sad that I have to even do these things, though. It's 2015 and the male-to-female ratio on a typical golf course is the same as the female-to-male ratio at any given Yankee Candle store.)

With one or two exceptions, the staff at the golf course is probably the friendliest bunch of folks I've ever known. Of course, who wouldn't be happy going to work where the grass is greenest. Plus, they get to play for free.

The other day, I happened to go out when there were a bunch of staffers going out. These were the top-of-the-food chain guys, the ones who worked the starter box in the mornings or did marshall duty on weekdays, not the peons who wash carts or worked the weekends. I ended up playing with one of the rangers and his friend, a former pro at a private club. Hubby and I had played with that ranger before. I'll call him Ralph, since his white curly hair and blue eyes reminds me of the designer Ralph Lauren, though he's actually a contractor by trade. He's a single-digit handicap, as are pretty much all the staffers. He paid me a compliment by saying that I played like a 9 handicap. "Are you kidding? I'm like a 20," I said. (Since that day, though, I've gotten down to an 18.5.)

Ralph's friend hit long but errant balls. He said he gave up golf for a number of years after working as a club pro and seeing the evil in it. I was curious about specifics, but there wasn't time to delve deep. Strangely, I think I had an inkling about what he was talking about. When rich people are involved, evil must lurk.

It's June now, and my 2 months of unlimited afternoons of public golf has come to an end. Tomorrow I try out for that ladies league. The forecast says there's a 70% chance of rain and it will be unseasonably cool. Not exactly the best conditions to start, but that's the rub of the green, as they say.