GOLF AND THE SINGLE GIRL

I love golf courses. Sometimes I love to just sit on the concrete bench that's under the tree that shades the putting green at my favorite public course, and just observe things. Squirrels scrounge for food, tails twitching and unafraid, yet keeping their distance. Bluejays, shrieking their nervousness that someone will get too close to their nests, stand ready to dive-bomb unsuspecting putters. People come out of the clubhouse and parade up to the first tee. People come out of the same clubhouse and march up to the 9th hole and tee off. There's usually a good, cool, sometimes stiff Oklahoma breeze blowing. If I feel like it, after I'm done observing, I'll get up off the bench and do a little putting myself, maybe use a token at the practice range. This has been my ritual for close to thirteen years now; I'm still no good as a golfer, but it doesn't really matter. I've done a company tournament or two, but that's it. It's like coming to a big park with a fence around it. I like being outside on a warm summer day. I have Johnny Mathis to thank for introducing me to this wonderful environment.

After all, it was because of Mr. Mathis' obsession with the game that I wanted to learn in the first place. It so happened that one of my co-workers was a scratch golfer and I got him talking about the game, explaining it to me to the point where I even got him re-interested in the game, having not played in years. He warned me that it was an expensive game, and while not discouraging me, he said that for the most part, the people who play the game are people with money.

I thought this over. Now, being around people with money can't be a bad thing, I think, especially if they have the class to go with it. Here was my chance to get some regular exercise, as well as meet some of those rich, classy guys like Mr. Mathis; well-dressed guys who spoke proper English and opened doors for people, who knew how to say excuse me and thank you...men I never meet in real life. Maybe I'd been looking in all the wrong places. Birds of a feather flock together, after all. Maybe I could find some nice birds at the golf course!

I was momentarily concerned, though. If money folk hung out at the public course, what in the world would they think of me, with my nondescript little gray Nova and my lower-class wardrobe? Surely, being a public course, anyone who was a taxpayer could partake.

My first few trips to Conrad, my favorite public course, bore this out. Mingled among ordinary cars like mine were a few Lexus, Cadillacs, and Porsches...but there weren't that many. It seemed as if a fair amount of common folk, like me, came to the course. This was encouraging.

There was something else more important to worry about besides...my play! My six-week course that I took at a community college in 1986 taught me how to grip, how to tell the difference between an open and a closed stance, what a wood was for, what an iron was for, what a putter was for, and what the basics of how to act on the golf course were. Anything else pretty much had to be practiced on your own time. I had three clubs at my disposal at the time: a seven-iron I found at a going-out-of-business sale for $7, and a 9-iron I found at Service Merchandise that was on sale for less than $10, because it had gotten separated from its set somehow, and a metal driver. I had my new sneaker-style FootJoys, too, and a small red golf bag, designed for use by a kid, but perfect for me with as few clubs as I had.

The first few times I started going to the golf course, I learned by example. After I went in and bought my range tokens, I'd go outside and watch how others got their balls out of the machine without letting on that I was watching them, then I'd copy them. I noticed how they'd go and stand between the white blocks that were more-or-less lined up on the practice green, and I found a place for myself, relatively far away from the others. I didn't want to draw too much attention to myself. Then, desperately trying to remember my lessons, I did my preliminary warm up exercises, which gave me a chance to kind of watch people without making people feel like they were stared at. I wanted to see how good the practice range folk were, or rather, how bad I'd look.

Luckily, besides the few groups that were out there practicing to prepare for a tournament, most of the people out there on the range were better at making the ball roll 100 yards than hitting them the same distance. I would be in great company. I couldn't possibly be any worse than these guys. So, weekend after weekend I'd join the crowd, the majority of which were oblivious to my being there, since they, too, were busy digging up the ground trying to learn what they had been taught.

I'd learned from my co-worker not to spend money on tees right off, to go around picking up broken ones to use for my iron shots, and save any good ones I found for my wood shots. Another tip was to save one of your range balls to take to the putting green, but to take it back to the ball machine when you're done with it.

I also learned to get as much mileage as I could from a bucket of balls. The machine gave you about 30 balls for each token. But if you hit 30 balls with 30 swings, you go through your bucket pretty fast. However, if you make three or four practice swings, concentrating on your form, before hitting each ball, it's just like hitting 120-160 balls for the same money, and you get a lot more of an aerobic workout!

So that was my practice strategy. As the weeks went by, I began to feel less self-conscious and started noticing the people. By far, the people who came out to the course were guys. If you saw any women, they were caddying for their guys, which I didn't understand at all. There were few children, although every now and then a father would bring his toddlers out to the range and let them flail away with cut-down clubs, which was a little dangerous for the other folks on the range, and which I also did not understand.

As far as meeting rich, classy guys was concerned, I found out that it was hard to tell the money people from the regular folks when everybody is wearing shorts. One time, though, I did get hit in the back of the head by someone's Rolex...it darn near went down the back of my shirt, but I caught it in time. I found the probable culprit, and asked "Excuse me, is this yours?" He stared in amazement at his watch in my hand, as I had to walk over to him from quite a ways! He thanked me. I have yet to figure out how he did that when we all face the same direction!

One aspect of this "gentleman's sport", the courtesy, was true for the most part. The golf course attendants were nice, and appreciative of the fact that I would help them pick up everyone's buckets after I was done hitting balls. I believe in leaving a place better than I found it, after all, and I wondered why more people didn't put their buckets back.

At any rate, I figured I didn't need to find any rich classy guys for myself. Just being in the company of decent people who respected you and you could casually talk to was enough for me. Besides, I found I was happiest to be left alone to enjoy my surroundings and make my mistakes in peace. Sometimes, though, that's not always possible.

One Sunday summer morning, it's maybe during the first year I start regularly going out to the golf course, and I'm out early before it gets too hot. Not a whole lot of people are there, leaving the courses pretty much for those of us who forego church. I'm not doing well on the range. It's a struggle to get my ball off the tee and past my shadow. I'm more than a little frustrated.

"You'll never make the pros hitting like that!" Oh, oh. What the hell was that? I turn around to find I wasn't alone on my section of turf anymore. A muscular, practically bald, grudgingly handsome young man had parked his golf bag near the empty spot behind me. He nodded at me, smiling.

I nodded back with a curt "'morning" then turned my back to him. Already he and I were off to a baaaad start! His golf partner came up, parked his bag, and together they went off to get their bucket of balls. For a while, at least, I could practice my whiffs in peace.

"Don't baby that ball, sister!" He's BAAAAAAAACK. Idiot. I had no health insurance, and I was babying my back if nothing else. I turn to face him, hoping he could tell I was not pleased, but he was teeing up. His partner was sensibly minding his own business hitting errant shots of his own.

Thwack! "Over the fence," he says proudly. I roll my eyes, keep quiet, and turn my back once again, continuing on with my 25-foot 9-iron shots. Thwack!! "WOOOO!! WOOOO!!" Oh, my God, the man was barking at his own golf shots. Ignore him. I'm out here to learn to hit balls. I hope the people don't think he's with me. "Now, THAT'S how you hit the ball!" he bellows.

I turn briefly to glare at him, but the smiling idiot is too proud of himself. I continue with my plan...three practice swings, then hit. I at least now had a new focus...pretending the little white ball was the back of this guy's head. Each one seemed to travel a little further down the range now.

Mr. Clean and his friend finally use up their allotment of balls and put up their gear. "You keep practicing, now," he says. I just look at him. He laughs, and he and his golf buddy saunter down toward the putting green. I sigh.

Another theory blown out of the water...you've got your morons on the golf course, too.

God Bless You, Mr. Mathis.

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