|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Golf Peopleby Dina GanWhen Tiger Woods was caught cheating on his wife at the end of last year, I found myself riveted to the television in an intoxicating state of schadenfreude. It didn’t really surprise me that a golfer could cheat so spectacularly. I mean, in a sport where the goal is to score low, what do you do with that urge to score high? And despite the reputation of golf as a gentlemen’s sport, I’d seen plenty of less than ideal behavior on the course. The Worst 
Usually my husband and I play as a twosome because we go golfing the way some couples have date night. But when the courses are crowded, we can find ourselves paired with one or two strangers. This is why, on a cloudless summer Saturday at a public course in southern California, we were forced to endure the presence of Richard Weed (not his real name).
My husband and I had already been joined by a nice Canadian tourist whose metal-framed eyeglasses, striped polo, and khakis suggested a mild manner. But about 30 seconds before we were supposed to tee off, a dark-haired man wearing suit slacks strode in from the parking lot, loosening the necktie off his crisp white shirt. “Court was a madhouse. Can you squeeze me in, Buddy?” he barked to the starter, whose name probably wasn’t Buddy. The starter shrugged. “Give me five seconds to change,” said Mr. Weed, darting off in the direction of the men’s locker rooms. Five minutes later, Mr. Weed arrived, dressed exactly the same except with golf shoes and without the tie. At first, I wasn’t sure if he’d been in court as an attorney or defendant. But it soon became clear, as Mr. Weed, or “Dick” for short, immediately established himself as a corporate lawyer who often took clients to this course. It seemed odd to brag about taking clients to a public course, but no odder than Dick’s swing, which was halting and twisted and made Charles Barkley look like Anthony Kim. Since my husband and I rode the same cart, Dick partnered with the Canadian, whom he proceeded to take under his wing, revealing all the course’s secrets. The Canadian had a single-digit handicap but suffered the advice good-naturedly. Dick talked incessantly, even at the tee box, stopping only to take puffs off his chain of cigarettes. He was an embarrassingly bad golfer, despite his little cheats. For example, on the fairway he would nudge his ball with a toe to a flatter lie. On the putting green, he’d pick up his ball to clean it, and sloppily replace it several inches closer to the hole. Clearly Dick never learned that when you cheat at golf, you are only cheating yourself. Plus, he kept disappearing when it was his time to tee off, only to reappear from a thatch of tall grass, re-zipping his pants. The cart girl had only driven by once, and he’d bought two beers, so either he was a lightweight or had brought his own flask. But the worst behavior was displayed on the second to last hole. Despite all the distraction, my husband was playing particularly well, and he’d pured a drive to a dip on the fairway about 60 yards from the green. As we all rode up, somehow my husband’s ball had disappeared. Dick made a great show of helping us look for the ball. I hypothesized that a bird had taken it for an egg and flown off with it. “What else could have happened?” I said to Dick, innocently. But my husband already knew. Dick, in his social aplasia, had hit the ball and failed to fess up to it. “It’s the weirdest thing,” Dick said. “It’s like it disappeared into thin air!” On the way to the last hole, my husband told me what must have happened. “Are you sure?” I said. I still couldn’t believe that someone wouldn’t immediately own up to what was obviously a mistake. Or was it? Dick seemed like the kind of person who wasn’t above taking a good player down a notch by “accidentally” hitting his ball. When it was my turn to drive, my tee ball went rogue, and Dick said, “Here, take a mulligan,” and tossed me a ball with the same logo as the one my husband was using, Slazenger 3. Either it was his way of returning the ball without ever admitting what happened or his way of rubbing it in. My husband and I played along, so he (or we) could save face. “Wow, you’re using Slazenger too? What a coincidence!” I said, feigning ignorance. I felt sorry for the Canadian. After the round was finally over, Dick was already asking for his cell phone number and trying to make plans for them to get together for dinner. I’ll never know for sure whether Dick had hit my husband’s ball on purpose. I do know I’d have respected him more if he had owned up to it. The Best Perhaps I judge Dick’s behavior so harshly because a higher standard had already been set by two golfers whose names I can’t even remember. It was the first time I had to play with strangers, and I was terrified. I’d only had a few golf lessons, and I wasn’t ready to show off my skills, or lack thereof. But somehow, on the day of my public debut, the golf gods were kind and paired two very nice gentlemen with us. I’ll call them Oprah and Dr. Phil, even though they were both men. From the moment we shook hands, they behaved like ambassadors to the game, acting like hosts for that particular tee time and treating my husband and I like guest stars. From the first tee, they made me feel at ease. When it was my turn to hit, they politely looked away until they heard the ball strike. Whenever I hit a decent shot, they’d say, “Good ball!” and whenever my ball flew into the rough, they’d wait till I hit out and say, “Nice out!” And they’d say it in a genuine way, not patronizing at all. If I couldn’t find my ball, and my husband was on the other side of the fairway, they’d ride over and help me hunt around without begrudging the lost time. They were good players, but even if they hit a bad shot, they just laughed it off. When one of them hit a ball into a tree and it ricocheted back over his head, he stood for a moment with a hand on his hip, in awe, as if extraordinarily bad shots were as worthy of marvel as extraordinarily good ones. The two golf buddies were such exemplars of good golf behavior that it seemed to actually help my game that day. I hit long and made a few fairways, and even cleared a water hazard to land a few feet from the hole on a par 3. Even my husband said that was the best he’d ever seen me play. But I give credit to Oprah and Dr. Phil. Their positivity rubbed off on me. Since then, I have yet to encounter any golf strangers who lived up to them. Even I haven’t been able to live up to them, but I try. Because for most of us, who play golf for fun and for whom millions of dollars aren’t at stake, playing nice is how the game is meant to be played. |
|
|
|
We would like to hear from you! If you have any comments or questions, please send an e-mail to: writeus@jademagazine.com or click here Write Us!
Reproduction of material from any jademagazine.com pages without written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. © Dina Gan. All rights reserved. DISCLAIMER |