18 + 18 = 36

I played 36 holes yesterday. It was Bea’s idea. I’ve never played a back-to-back round. Bea said she used to do it often, during a seven-year stretch when she was “crazy” about golf and played almost every day. That was before she had to stay home with a kid. Now that her daughter’s graduated college and flown the nest, it’s back to golf like crazy. Like me, she’s recovering from a back injury, but last week she said she’s ready for 36.

We had a 10:04am tee time. It’s mostly older, retired people at the golf course in the morning, so we were paired with two men who looked like they had fought in WWI. The kind who wear saggy white undershirts and knee socks with sandals and just don’t give a darn anymore. After Bea and I teed off and they saw our drives roll down the fairway, one of them chortled, “Looks like we got ourselves a couple of ringers!”

The weather was supposed to be sunny with highs in the mid-70s. Instead it was overcast and in the high 60s and stayed that way all day. Plus, the greens were being aerated. For a $3 discount, we were treated to perforated greens sprinkled with sand. One benefit of the dot matrix was that occasionally it provided a putting line:

As for how I played, well, I rode the first round and shot a 98. I walked the second round and shot a 101. But I had more fun during the second 18 holes, when it was just me and Bea playing and we didn’t have to worry about the politeness and protocol of playing with strangers. If only I hadn’t shot that snowman on a par 3 and that bacon and egg on a par 5, I would have scored better too. It also would have helped if the greens weren’t riddled with holes.

The good news is Mike’s pitching and chipping lesson has already started to pay off, as evidenced by some of my 40-50 yard pitches that landed close to the pin:

After 36 holes and 8 hours at the golf course, I was pretty exhausted. The day went by so fast. Almost too fast. Golf is like that. When you're focused on chasing around a little ball, it's easy to lose track of time. And when you're not focused on your own ball, you're looking out for where your playing partners have hit, making sure you're not in their way, tending the flagstick, keeping a fast pace, and performing all the other niceties that make a round of golf civilized fun.

I do remember pausing at one point, when I was waiting for Bea to take a shot, and looking around to just breathe the fresh air and enjoy the scenery, at the center of which was a beckoning green.

 

At the end of the day, I was blissfully happy, but tired to the bone. I’m not sure I’d do it again, but I’d never say never!

A Breakthrough

After a couple of range sessions practicing the teddy bear drill, I was itching to take it to the course. Last Tuesday, Seri had signed us up for one of the first twilight slots at a local course. It was sunny in the mid-60s, an unseasonably warm day for January, and as Seri had predicted. “All the mens will be out.”

I arrived an hour early and hit the range, swinging my teddy bear swing till my left shoulder was sore. I met up with Seri in the pro shop.

Seri is in her late 40s, but looks like she’s in her 30s and dresses like she’s 13. She wore tight black pants and a satin jacket emblazoned with a sparkly logo across the chest. Her knitted cap was puffy and domed like a Rastafarian tam, except it was pastel pink and had a visor. Her gold faux leather golf shoes had a crystal butterfly affixed to the laces.

“What is that?” I asked.

She bent down to pull the butterfly off her shoe lace. “It’s a ball marker,” she said, demonstrating its magnetic quality. “Isn’t it cute?”

At tee time, the starter paired us with two men. I’ll call them Trek and Shrek, since one of them was outfitted in a black and grey pantsuit that reminded me of Spock, and the other was tall, with broad shoulders and a large head.

The starter asked Seri to share a cart with Trek. Shrek and I walked. Among golfers, there are those who walk and those who ride. Walkers are the traditionalists. They believe that a true golfer is supposed to walk the course, hence the saying, “Golf is a good walk spoiled.” Shrek was even more of a traditionalist than me, since he carried his golf bag on his back. I used to do that, too, but that was before “the injury.”

So off we went. My first drive was respectable, but Seri drove about 10 yards farther. I felt a bee sting to the heart, but despite that I said, “Good ball!”

I generally praise other people’s good shots and remain silent on bad shots. In between shots, I like to chat. It lets off steam and lifts the spirit, which can be good for my game. But because Seri and Trek shared a cart, they did most of the chatting, while I walked alone and Shrek walked along the sides of the fairway, looking for lost balls in the deep rough. Seri and Trek even kept score on the same tee card, something I would never do with a stranger.

I was feeling a bit left out of the party that Seri and Trek seemed to be having in their cart. I found myself landing in a lot of bunkers, and on the front nine, I scored a snowman and a lollipop on my card.

Then, on the first hole of the back nine, the unthinkable happened. I whiffed on a drive. “What the --?” I said, looking at the ball on the ground next to the wooden tee.

“Oh no!” Seri said. “You know, when I play with my other golf friends, we usually allow two mulligans per round.”

“Well, I’ll take that as a mulligan,” I said. Under normal circumstances, I would do no such thing. I had already stopped trying to score, and had started to look at this as a practice round. I decided that I didn’t care if Seri was hitting farther than me all the time. I don’t know if it was fatigue, mental or physical, but I suddenly decided to take it easy and just swing slow.

At that moment, something clicked. My drive flew like a rocket. I could barely keep track of it in the distance. I knew it wasn’t an optical illusion because Trek called out, “Atta girl!”

When I got to my ball, I calculated that it had gone 179 yards. I was astounded. I couldn’t wait to hit the next drive. On the next hole, I took the club back slow, like before. It worked again! I drove the ball 183 yards.

After that, all my balls were flying. It felt so effortless, like I was swinging a ribbon in the air. I didn’t feel my fingers on the club. Each time, I had the sensation of letting the weight of the clubhead pull my arms long. There was a brief pause at the top. Then I seemed to make the turn in slow motion and simply let the clubhead fall down into place. I heard a melodic “ping” sound as the sweet spot of the club hit the ball.

On the remaining holes, my balls were landing 10 and even 20 yards past Seri’s. I think everyone was rather surprised.

By the 17^th hole, I was feeling invincible, and I birdied the par 3 by pounding my 7-wood 150 yards to within a few feet of the flag. Even with my mediocre putting skills, I sank the putt in one.

On the last hole, a long par 5, I drove using my slo-mo technique, and my ball looked like it would sail, but its path was rudely interrupted by a “thunk” as it struck a thick tree branch and dropped straight down.

“After a birdie, luck always goes the other way,” said Trek.

But I felt great anyway. I shot a 49 on the back nine, versus 56 on the front, for a total of 105. If I can continue to hit 170 to 180 yards on a drive, that puts me squarely in the average range for amateur women. Never in my life have I wanted so desperately to be average.

But the question remains: Would this miraculous breakthrough hold up? And the answer: Only time will tell.

First Round of the New Year

To celebrate the arrival of the new year, I made a tee time on January 1, 2012, at 12:12pm. The weather forecast called for sunny skies with a high of 53 degrees, so I wasn’t surprised to find the parking lot half full at the golf course. Good thing there was a football game today, or it would have been packed.

Yesterday was warm too, but I forced myself to take a day off since my neck and hip were feeling a bit achy. Today I felt just fine but resolved to swing easy and not try to kill it on driver. Hubby had the idea to play a match, and he gave me a stroke a hole. So on a par 4, for example, if I took five strokes and he took four, we’d still be even. Just before we teed off, the starter said to me, “Don’t forget the rules: You’re not allowed to beat him!” I laughed and replied, “Don’t worry, that never happens!”

For the first few holes, things went pretty well, which for me means I was staying a stroke or two above par. I landed on the green on hole 5, which was the site of my hole-in-one back in October. I haven’t repeated it since, but that never stops me from trying. This time, I ended up three-putting for a respectable bogey.

Then along came hole 6. From the red tees, it’s 405 yards to the pin, half of which is a steep uphill. I botched my drive and plugged the ball into the rough on the far right, a pitiful 80 yards or so from the tee ground. From there I tried rescuing the ball with my 7-wood, but the rough was thick and the ball was stubborn. I kept hitting fat shots that sent the ball dribbling forward, clinging to the side of the fairway like a gutterball. It took me 11 strokes to get my ball in the hole. Needless to say, hubby won that hole.

Given that I blew up so hard, we had to come up with a new golf term for my terrible score. In golf lingo, there’s bogey and double-bogey for one or two strokes above par. Three strokes over par is triple-bogey, and if par happens to be 5, then you’d get a “snowman,” which is what the 8 looks like. But what about 9, 10, and 11, which are numbers that are known to appear on my score card? Well, I thought of “lollipop” for a 9. For 10, hubby thought “bacon and egg” was a good phrase. And for 11? “Chopsticks,” he said.

On the back nine, the wind picked up and some clouds rolled in, and then raindrops started falling. At the 14^th hole, we headed for shelter. We debated stopping for the day, but my husband surveyed the sky and looked at how fast the clouds were moving in the distance. “This should be over in about 20 minutes,” he predicted. So we loitered under the driving range hood till the rain subsided to a light drizzle.

Sometimes I play better in the rain. The grayness forms a cloak around me so I don’t get distracted by pretty blue skies, chirping birds, or shadows cast by the sun. On a wet fairway, balls don’t stray too far from where you land them, and a damp green is like putting on carpet. Perhaps because of this, I birdied the 16^th hole. I hit my 6-iron on the 110-yard par 3, and made the 8-foot putt to my utter surprise. 

I shot 103 for the round. Hubby shot an 86. In terms of the match, I won 7 holes, he won 6, and we came out even on the rest. So technically, despite the starter's reminder, I did beat my husband. But we both had fun. Even though there were some dark clouds and cold rain, we weathered it. We even managed not to curse or bicker much. All in all, it was a great start to the new year.