ON GOLFING WITH THE BOYS.

ON GOLFING WITH THE BOYS

Dear Eliza:

I received the ultimate invitation. The annual office golf tournament was about to happen and “the boys” graciously wanted to include the newest addition to the squad . . . me.

The invitation, as it was presented to me, was: “Do you like to golf?” So, what was I supposed to say? I love to golf! The fact that I did not know how to golf seemed irrelevant. Anyhow, I was reassured that it was “all for fun . . . not to worry".

Foursomes were organized and off we went, to the biggest, meanest golf course I’ve ever seen.

I've watched golf shows on TV. I had expectations of soft, lush, green grass, undulating beneath enormous shade trees . . . happy golfers meandering along, teasing the ball toward its ultimate goal. Hey! Maybe I’d get lucky and get a hole-in-one! I’d read somewhere that it happens. Wouldn’t that be something to talk about over coffee! My brain said: "You GO girl!"

In reality, there was not a tree over six feet tall anywhere! I suspect the surface of the moon is quite similar in terrain. There were mogul-like sand dunes surrounding the grassy areas—and far more ball-eating-lakes than I felt necessary.

The sky was cloudless. It was the hottest day of the summer. It must have been over 100 degrees. I had cleverly selected a sturdy blue denim long-sleeved shirt and long golf pants as my ensemble for the day . . . topping it off with a (very smart looking) pair of brand-spanking-new-far-too-tight-golf-shoes.

As soon as I got out of my car, I realized I had forgotten both hat and sunscreen. I had been so consumed with worry over my lack of golf prowess—and the potential for making an absolute fool of myself in front of my new colleagues—these rather necessary items had completely slipped my mind.

This was the summer, that for various reasons, I had spent almost entirely indoors. The only exposure I’d had to the sun was the stretch from my car to the front door of Safeway. I knew my skin would burn to a crisp in ten minutes.

As luck would have it, I uncovered an old broken down umbrella while rummaging through the trunk of my car. You know, the gimpy one with two broken arms—that anyone else would have thrown in the garbage—but I keep in the car . . . just in case. As it turned out, this relic of an umbrella would save my neck (and every other exposed part of my person).

The march began. Whenever I wasn’t slashing away at my ball, I was trundling along, pulling my cart, looking like a limping Mary Poppins.

Five years later I still have not heard the end of the "umbrella thing." They will not let it die. The part they most enjoy tormenting me with, was the rather exciting moment during the game, when the wind caught the umbrella. I had left it lying open beside the green whilst putting. Well, off it went, rolling merrily down the fairway at a rapidly increasing rate of speed. Can you visualize the scenario Liza? Middle aged, over-heated woman, running frantically across golf course, desperately trying to overtake escaping umbrella . . . arms a-waving, legs a-churning . . . interfering with . . . God only knows how many golf games!

We golfed 18 holes! It took hours and hours. Have you ever golfed 18 holes on a monster golf course? Lord help us! I now know how prisoners of war felt when the Japanese marched them across the tropics. I was sweating so bad I had a distinct water line four inches above my belt! By the fourth hole my feet were bleeding. Pride would not allow me to give in and go barefoot. I bit my tongue and gritted my teeth, determined not to look like more of an incompetent than I already did.

I was slowly dying of embarrassment and pain . . . hole by hole. It was a contest as to which torment would ultimately do me in . . . my pride or my pain tolerance.

One of my companions—who shall remain nameless—determined that I should find my first golfing experience enjoyable, decided on the third hole that I was taking far too many swings at my ball. So, once I got near to the green he would simply pick up my ball and hand it to me. I found this rather off-putting, but thought it best to say nothing. He seemed to feel pressured by something he perceived was behind us.

This chap was not having a good game. He wanted everyone on the golf course to know that he was not accustomed to golfing so badly, and swore loudly after most every swing. It was apparent to everyone that he had decided my particular presence on the planet was the major cause of his poor performance.

Our foursome was chatting, laughing, and thoroughly enjoying themselves. Without realizing I was about to commit an absolute golfing faux pas, I commented to the fellow about to tee off: “When we go to Mary’s cabin, I’ll bring my Italian Casserole!” The fact that I made this innocent comment just as he was about to swing his driver, can only be described as unfortunate timing. I do believe that is the closest I have ever seen him come to complete apoplexy.

As we ended the first nine and the clubhouse came into view, my spirits began to lift. I was so relieved that at last we would relax over hors d'oeuvres, a light lunch and cold beer . . . before pressing onward for the second nine.

WRONG!!! Do you know they bloody well walk the ENTIRE 18 holes before they eat!

I thought I would die! The pain in my feet was incredible . . . perfectly symmetrical blisters had formed on the heels and toes of both feet.

Not only was I on the verge of drowning in my own sweat—and seriously wishing I had worn cotton underwear—but I was golfing like an absolute JERK! I could not have put on a more vivid display of ineptitude if I had planned my every move. I could do nothing right! Single-handedly I was putting the women's movement back thirty years.

At this point, my chances of being included in the next office golf tournament ranked somewhere between zero and none.

What a loser! My self-esteem was taking a terrible beating.

At the 10th hole I began a countdown 10, 11, 12 . . . only 6 more to go!

I cannot begin to express to you the surge of joy that I experienced when I saw the 18th hole on the horizon. I could see the lights from the clubhouse twinkling in the background. I can best relate it to the time I was lost on the Mojave dessert for 25 days without food and water—and suddenly—there before me was a . . . mirage (OK, so maybe this part is a bit of an exaggeration)!

It was truly a spiritual moment.

I literally stumbled to my car. With my last ounce of strength, I carefully peeled off my soaked and bloodied socks. I tentatively examined what remained of my dear little feet. It was a sad vista Liza. I had blisters on my blisters. I cried . . . I really did.

I have now made up a personal list of golf rules that I shall encourage all of my girlfriends to study:

1. NEVER attempt to walk 18 holes in new golf shoes unless you are carrying morphine.

2. ONLY golf on a big course IF you have a golf cart with a motor that is guaranteed not to fail.

3. Hide an old pair of sneakers in your golf bag and never be too proud to put them on.

4. Only golf on cool, cloudy days when you can wear long pants and there is absolutely no chance of breaking into a sweat.

5. Take many, many golf lessons from a caring, attentive, patient, SENSITIVE, professional golfer who will hug you after every lesson.

6. Only golf with people who love you.

Love,

MM