18 + 18 = 91

It was a very golfy day. I hadn’t played golf for 2 straight weeks because it has been hot as Hades around here. Seri was away in Korea and Bea was out with back pain, so I hadn’t seen either of them for almost a month. Yesterday, the three of us met for coffee and catch-up chitchat, and today we got down to business. We teed off at 8:46am, with Debbie Harry completing our foursome. It was just like old times, except earlier in the morning. The sun was out and the humidity was high, so our energy was not the greatest. It was like the first day of school after a long, hot summer.

I wore the new visor hat that Seri had brought me from Korea. We were like two little golfers on the prairie.

The scene of this happy reunion was Pine Ridge, where I’d played a few times since shooting 90 at Fox Hollow. I have never managed to break 100 at Pine Ridge, since it’s a longer course with a higher slope rating. Today was no different, and I shot 106. After 18 holes, Bea said she was feeling warmed up, and asked if I wanted to play another 18. I was just getting warmed up, too, so I said yes, even though it meant I had to make some calls and cancel some things, including telling my hubby that I couldn’t make it to the grocery store today because my putter was en fuego.

But who cared about making dinner when my adrenaline was already pumping and my eyes had grown big, and I had that feeling you get after coming off a roller coaster ride and you want to go again, right away, before you lose your nerve. I was tired and achy, but it was nothing a big juicy hot dog and an ice-cold diet cola wouldn’t fix.

So, after Seri and Debbie Harry returned to their cars and drove away, Bea and me teed off again. And in the end, I was glad I did, because I shot a 91. On the front nine, I managed to keep it all under control and shot an encouraging 48. It looked good for breaking 100, but on the back nine, I never did worse than a double-bogey and actually birdied a par 5 and a par 3. I think it may have been my first birdie on a par 5, but I know for a fact that’s the first time I ever birdied twice in a round.

“You see?” said Bea, “it’s easy when you play all day.”
Yes, it seems easy when you play all day. The hard part is getting a whole day to play.

The Set-Up Three-Step

When you don’t taken a golf lesson for awhile, some strange things can start happening to your swing. Mine was starting to morph into the “homemade” category, with my spine tilting unnaturally away from the target and the ball creeping slowly left till I felt like I was an extra in Michael Jackson’s Thriller video.

I knew it was time for a check-up but I didn’t feel like starring in a solo lesson. On Saturdays, there is a golf clinic that offers group instruction on specific topics. I went to the one on full swing with woods and driver. It was hosted by Julieta Stack, who has a knack for making golf instruction clear and simple.

The lesson began with addressing the ball: Start with your feet together and the ball in the middle. Grip the club, stick your butt out a tad, and drop your arms till they hang straight down and the club head is behind the ball. To me, this feels like bowing forward, almost like a curtsey to a square dance partner. The rest reminded me of a simple dance step, which I will call the “Set-Up Three-Step.”

Feet together and address the ball.

Flare out the left toe.
Step to the side with the right foot.

You should end up with the ball behind the left heel and your feet shoulder width apart. Then take a swing as usual. When I tried it, it seemed like a much more natural way to get all the angles right at address, with my spine tilted away from the target and my head behind the ball, but not in the forced, exaggerated way I was doing before. And it all starts with the feet. Just like dancing.

The Longest Closest to the Pin Ever

My golf buddy Jen invited me to the annual GBBR Golf Outing at Piney Branch. It was a fun day in the sun, and they served both lunch and dinner. The 1pm shotgun start meant I didn’t have to get up at the crack of dawn, too. The format was supposed to be “best ball,” where everyone plays their own ball and records the lowest player’s score for each hole as the team score, but the starter announced something about everyone hitting their tee shots, choosing the best position, then playing their own ball from there. That sounded awfully familiar to the “bramble” format I had played recently, but I had just eaten a hot dog and was still savoring the aftertaste, so my mind was elsewhere.

Turns out that Jen and I did play the wrong format – everyone else played the “scramble” format, where each player on the team moves their ball to the best position on each stroke till everyone holes out, but they were calling this format “best ball.” Really, it should have just been “prison rules” for the tournament, with all the confusion. But that didn’t stop us from winning both women’s prizes. Jen won women's “longest drive” by blasting a 200-plus yard bullet on a long rollercoaster fairway. And I won women's “closest to the pin” with a much less impressive shot that landed 47 feet and 9 inches from the pin on a par 3. It was so far from the flag that at first I wondered if I should even mark it, but I did, mainly because I had never used one of those funky, old-school tape measuring devices that they’d left on the side of the green, and I was curious to see how it worked.

At the awards dinner, I was truly surprised when they announced my name. Jen and I both won gift certificates at the pro shop for our efforts. The toughest part was finding merch to spend it on. I must have tried on every cute top in the shop, and finally found an Under Armor sleeveless polo that fit me.

But even though I won a prize, the shot I was really proud of that day involved hitting my 7-utility hybrid brazenly through a stand of trees:

My ball shot like a rocket through two trees and skipped onto the green, rolling just a few feet over and into the rough. It was a risky shot, but it felt sublime to see my ball go just where I aimed it. And that was its own reward.

Dude Looks Like a Lady

It's hard enough to hit a golf ball wearing golf shoes. Try doing it wearing a pair of high heels. That's exactly what I did this afternoon at the High Heels for Hope Long Drive Competition benefiting the House of Ruth. The event took place at the Pine Ridge driving range. For $5 a ball or $20 for five balls, men and women alike teed up to support a great cause. Some highlights:

Hmm, looks like somebody needs to shave?

Or, maybe not.

Shoes courtesy of DSW.

Nice finish!

People lined up for the chance to hit balls wearing high heels.

Wedges don't count, but it's nice to support the charity.

Knee-highs are optional.

I brought my own shoes and didn't fall over.

I knew I wouldn't win this competition, since 220 yards was the woman's yardage to beat. But it was a novelty to try hitting a ball in heels. It's actually a lot harder that you'd think. But then again, I find just walking in high heels a tough task. Hubby was going to do it, too, but he tweaked something in his back the last time we golfed. Likely excuse. Well, maybe we can try again next year!

You Never Forget Your First Time

The first time I ever played a full 18 holes, I shot a 128. That was years ago, and I remember thinking how shooting 100 seemed impossible. But I did it. The first time I shot 100 was at The Crossings in Carlsbad, CA. Hubby and I played with a retired man and his middle-aged son, who were very nice, relaxed, chill kind of people. After we were done, a staffer at the golf course asked me how I did, and I said, “I just shot the lowest score of my life.” He looked at me like I must have broken 70 or something. Little did he know that 100 was the lowest score of my life at that time.

Today, 90 is the lowest score of my life. That’s right. I shot a 90 today, all by myself. (The 90 I shot when I played the bramble format at the Martha's Place charity tournament doesn’t count since I was assisted by hubby’s monster driving on some of the holes.) Over the past few months, I have been shooting in the high 90s, and once shot 94, but I was wondering when I would ever shoot lower than that. Turns out today was the day.

The location of this feat was Fox Hollow, which has become my favorite course. It’s where I shot a hole-in-one-last October, on the same day I shot a 99 and first broke 100. And now, it’s where breaking 90 will be my goal. My playing partners were Debbie Harry and Dodi, who are both super laid-back, good vibe kind of people. But out of sheer coincidence, the same OMG from last week joined us. He did some irritating things, including smoking a lot and marking my ball with a wooden tee, without my permission, when I couldn’t get to the green fast enough, but I returned the favor when I took the flag out of the hole on one of his long putts, and he wanted it to stay in (but really, you’re supposed to take the pin out once everyone is on the green anyway).

And, I am not ashamed to admit that I rode a cart today (or “rode the wagon” as Dodi likes to say). It is easier to play golf when sweat isn’t pouring into your eyes. Other thoughts: Driver wasn’t great, but it didn’t suck completely. I have learned when to hit my hybrid and when to leave the 7-wood in the bag. Also, even when I didn’t make greens in regulation, wedging it close to the hole and one-putting is just as good.

Here, for posterity, my scorecard:

In case you're wondering, the numbers in the first row of my scorecard are my "distances from the pin" on each tee shot. I put an X when my drive sucks so bad I don't bother recording it. Later, I subtract this number from the hole's yardage to get an approximation of how far I hit each drive. I put this number on the bottom row. The tick marks in the second row represent each shot I take to get on or near the green, unless it's a par 3 and I can keep track in my head. On par 3s, I also write "on" or "off" or "bunk" to indicate whether I made it on or off the green, or landed in the sand. 

I usually tally the front 9 before proceeding to the back 9, but today, I didn't want to put pressure on myself, so I waited till I got home to add it all up. I was pretty sure I did well (for me) since I didn't have any 8's on my card, and only one 7. 

90 is better than I expected for today. A lot better. I am happy tonight. And I will remember this day for a long time.

 

Can't Touch This

So last Friday, Debbie Harry and I hit the links. We were paired up with an OMG who I actually played with once before. I recognized his pale bare legs, saggy black socks, knee brace, and tan cap bearing the logo of the financial services company he worked for. He recognized me, also. The last time we played, I remember him asking me if I worked, and when I said I did, he didn’t have much more to say to me. I guess if a woman works, it means her husband isn't rich enough to be schmooze-worthy as a client.

Anyway, the OMG seemed cheerful enough this time, realizing that the inevitable replay with a stranger would happen in Small-timore County. A fourth person joined us, a quiet guy from New Jersey in town for a conference. He teed off from the blues, and OMG, who teed off from much shorter yellow tees was on his best behavior. Then the Jersey guy had to leave early, and that’s when OMG started touching our balls.

The first time, Debbie Harry was the victim. She hit a putt and it looked like it was rolling fast past the hole, so the OMG stuck his foot out to stop it. Now the rules of golf say that if you accidentally deflect or stop an opponent’s ball, there is no penalty, but it’s a whole different matter if you do it on purpose. In that case, the perpetrator incurs a two-stroke penalty, loses a hole in match play, or even gets disqualified. Not that we were in competition, but it’s always good practice to play as if you are. Just like it’s always good practice to have your seat belt on just in case you’re in an accident.

Anyway, Debbie Harry was polite about it and just smiled the way you’d smile at your pervy old grandpa if he tried to grab your ass. But I stared aghast at the OMG as if he had just picked his nose in front of us. Not that he noticed because a few holes later, when my ball rolled into a shallow divot, he went right over, picked it up, and tossed it a few feet away into a greener piece of fairway. I made a joke about it, saying, “Hmmm, looks like my ball was moved by an outside agency. Guess I’ll have to play it as it lies.” But secretly I was pretty annoyed.   

I don’t know what it’s like for men to play alone with other men, but somehow when women are around, all the usual rules seem to go out the window and we lose the right to play the ball as it lies. Perhaps OMG wanted us to speed up our play, or perhaps he thought he was making it “easier” on us. But making golf easier to play is beside the point. It's like making a Rubik’s cube with the same color on all sides.  

So for all the well-meaning OMGs out there, here’s some advice: Before you touch a woman’s ball, stop and ask yourself, would you touch another man’s ball? At the very least, please ask permission first.

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.