2017 June 6^th

Politics will be back tomorrow. Meanwhile, here is a piece from “A Double Dozen and Six.”

The Golf Tournament

I do not play golf anymore. I have played the game twice in my life and I was able to win trophies both times. It wasn’t much of a challenge, so I gave it up.

The college where I taught was close to a very nice country club. It was really a golf club. It had no swimming pool, a few rather run-down tennis courts, a passable restaurant and cheap drinks at the four to six afternoon happy hour. I had a social membership that entitled me to restaurant and bar privileges but not access to the golf course. I didn’t play golf, so I didn’t care.

Some faculty members decided to have a nine-hole faculty golf tournament at the end of the school year and everyone was invited to compete. We would begin at nine in the morning and the foursomes would tee off every few minutes until all had entered the course. Let me make it clear that I had no interest in this endeavor whatsoever. I would much prefer to have been trout fishing. Still, some of my friends cajoled me into joining a foursome. I think they saw it as an easy way to humble a wiseacre. (Ha!) A set of clubs was found for me, and I bought a set of three golf balls and a packet of tees. I was ready. I knew enough not to wear my usual blue jeans and denim shirt, so I arrived in khaki slacks, short sleeved sport shirt and a sweater draped over my shoulders with the sweater arms crossed over my chest in the approved overhand knot. First, dress the part, then play it!

My colleagues knew that I had never played golf before, so I and the other complete novices were in the last foursome. (The experts were not to be delayed on their run to the clubhouse.) I understood that we kept our own scores, and that noting the correct score on each hole was a matter of honor. I teed up on the first hole. I addressed the ball and smiled remembering that wonderful scene where Ralph Cramden is teaching Norton to play golf. Cramden Tells Norton he must first “address the ball” whereupon Norton steps up, doffs his hat and says, “Hello, ball!” No one can understand what I am chuckling about. No matter, I am considered a bit strange anyway.

Now time to perform. I take a mighty swing and miss the ball completely. Others are now chuckling. That’s OK, as far as I know it’s not “three strikes and you’re out.” I take a second mighty swing. Missed again. Maybe it’s the wrong club. A different club helps, but I hit the ball only about thirty feet. I guess there are no do-overs. That’s OK I am playing with the big boys. I discover a strange thing about scorekeeping. You count as strokes, swings where you miss the ball completely. How fair is that? I get a direct hit on the next swing and the ball arcs into the air but moves smartly off line to the left. Someone says, “Hooked it,” golf talk for “it was hit left of where it was intended to go.” I was to learn a lot of golf talk that day. Golfers have their own lexicon; sometimes it gets on their shoes.

I muddle along until the sixth hole when I hit another mighty shot. Hooked it again! You see, I can now speak the lingo. Unfortunately, the ball is in some waist-high grass. I find the ball and begin trampling down the grass so that I can get a decent swing at this sucker. What! I can’t do that. Why on earth not? I certainly can’t hit it where it is unless I tramp down these weeds. Hey, I can barely see the ball. Oh, so it is an unplayable lie. Well, who decides that, and then what do we do about it? I decide? OK, it’s an unplayable lie. I’ve decided, now what. I can move two club lengths away and drop the ball from my shoulder high, outstretched hand, at a cost of one stroke. Well friend that’s dandy, except I am twenty feet into this hayfield. Eventually, with an eight-stroke penalty, I complete the hole. (People do this for recreation?)

And now for the grand finale. I hole out at the ninth hole ready for a double martini when I discover I am not playing one of the balls I bought that morning. There is much discussion, which I ignore because I am sitting on the club’s porch sipping my very large martini. The agreed penalty strokes are assessed. 

At the last faculty meeting of the year, real trophies are awarded for best player and most improved player. Colleagues rise to receive applause and be recognized. Last comes the “Duffer’s Cap,” a green straw cap with duffer printed on the front in large letters. I wear it proudly for the rest of the meeting. My score was 104 for nine holes. There is some muttering that I did not take the “auld game” seriously. That is true, very true.

None-the-less, the following spring I am invited to play again. The winner of the Duffer’s Cap must award the cap to the new winner. I would still rather be trout fishing, but in the spirit of camaraderie, I agree to participate. This event goes better. I learned last year that mighty swings do not pay off. I stay within two club lengths of any really deep rough, and I inspect my ball after each hole to be sure it is mine. I have marked a little obscenity on it with my ballpoint pen. It is a Chinese character so no one finding it will be insulted. My score for the nine holes is a blazing 89.

At the faculty meeting, I discover that I am to receive the most improved player trophy. Did I hear some jealous hisses as I rose to receive my award? I put the trophy in a prominent place in my office all the next year.  Lastly, I am also to crown myself with the Duffer’s Cap, which I have won yet again. Indeed the Duffer’s Cap has now been officially retired in my possession. I have never played golf again. None of my colleagues have ever encouraged me to join them.