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From July 5, 2000 |
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Into each golfer's life, a sandtrap must fall--or vice versa |
A mature woman's guileless guide
to the often goofy game of golf
By AUDREY YEAGER
of TheColumnists.com
THERE ARE 23 million golfers in the world and I am valiantly
striving to make it 23,000,001.
Many of us turn to the walking sports like golf when we find our bodies protesting all major movement--like tying our shoelaces. In my case, ballroom dancing had to go, too. Hips that have seen--and swiveled to--better days, tend to need emergency surgery when one is reckless enough to toss them about indiscriminately.
And I was in trouble from the start. Almost the first words I read as I flipped through my "Beginners Book of Golf" was a chapter heading titled "Hips Are the Primary Source of Power." Bummer. Besides stiffness, my power source was encased in several years' worth of upholstery.
The padding came about coincidentally as time quick-stepped along. The coincidence being: I had eaten a whole lot of Chocolate ice cream in my life. So, I backed up a number of pages and found another chapter announcing itself as "An Introduction to the Hip." I already knew both of mine as well as I wanted to and wasn't terribly thrilled about the idea of getting acquainted with anyone else's. This is a classic example of the oddities surrounding the sport.
The action we are told to take at the beginning of any game of golf is to "Address the Ball." The first time I heard this, I thought it was a joke. Whoever started this whole deal might have used several alternate phrases. What is wrong with a simple, "Look at the Ball?" But, "Address the Ball?" Anybody got a pen and a stamp? A speaker may address a certain group; when we greet someone we address them. The awful question is: Will I ever be able to hear this phrase without two words whispering in my head, "Hello, Ball?"
Before moving far into the world of golf I found there was something called "A New Sport Psychology for Golfers." It involves procedures like, Ericksonian Hypnosis and Neuro-Linguistic Programming. Some doctor probably came up with the notion. Scaaaary! And I was naïve enough to believe we would be blithely smacking around a little, waffle-coated jawbreaker with the carefree goal of sinking it in a few holes.
Everybody knows that a bunch of those fellows wearing plaid pants and funny socks on the golf course usually wear white coats while engaged in their chosen profession, but if I see one dressed in his medical garb heading my way, I'm out of there. The only thing that might make me change my mind is the statement they made claiming a sports hypnotist might help overcome all your anxieties. Will they let me take him home?
From what I can tell, the ancient Romans played a game similar to golf, and over the next five centuries it developed on several continents, then finally came to rest in the kilted laps of a few Scotsmen. Today, in modified form, we follow most of the rules the MacGregor's and the MacDonald's set up back when Rob Roy was just a kid.
Forget however many years of golf-brainwashing
you have endured and be honest. Shouldn't five centuries have
brought about more thoughtful terms than "birdie" and
"bogey"?
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Having been married to a country man, I had learned to read the weather, animal "sign" and the Farmer's Almanac. But, so far, I had been denied the wisdom to be found in "Reading the Green." My instructor mentioned it only in passing, and said we would get to that later. For now, we were to proceed without the advantage of studying minute blades of grass to see what insurmountable barrier they might present for our little white ball.
The time finally came. I was really going to play a game of golf. I had gotten rid of enough buckets of balls, and consequently enough large patches of turf to feel like one of the crowd. Now I was ready for the privilege of carrying, in a bag over my shoulder, 14 clubs in various shapes, sizes and lengths. I hadn't lifted anything that heavy since I hoisted a '65 Volkswagen after it fell off a jack and onto my toe.
Before we teed off, my friend told me to address the ball. Sure enough, there it was in my head like a banner pulled behind a small plane. "Hello, ball." There is no help for it, I am handicapped for life, and no golf pun intended either.
Getting past my moment of hysteria, I mentally ran through my list of Do's and Don'ts, putting them into play as I progressed. Bend my neck, keep my knees flexed, arms straight, don't twist the wrist, lift the club over the right shoulder and...DON'T TAKE YOUR EYE OFF THE BALL! SWING!
Everything I'd been taught flew out of my head like a bunch of swallows from a barn loft, and I tore up more divots than it would take to thatch Anne Hathaway's cottage. Then I tripped over the--until then--untouched ball, ambled along for 50 yards struggling to keep upright and finally fell over and rolled down the hill into a sand trap. But I haven't given up. If we ever find out where my teacher disappeared to I'll be right out there on the fairway.
Fore!
© 2000 by Audrey Yeager. The illustrations are from IMSI's Master/Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA.
You can comment on this column or contact Audrey Yeager with an email to: talkback@thecolumnists.com
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