Fore! Heaven’s Sake

I don’t think I’m an overly sensitive person, though I imagine there are some people out there who know me and might disagree. I don’t think one would have to be overly sensitive, though, to take offense at some advice I was given during a round of golf about thirty years ago.

When I was in my twenties, I played a bit of golf. I was part of a golf league when I worked at Frigidaire Company. I wasn’t a very good golfer, and my play was never consistent. My great shots were few and far between. In fact, my handicap was as high as some of the golfers’ actual scores. I was usually paired with an older, more experienced golfer, who was not shy about sharing his advice on my swing. I was thankful that all my partners were extremely patient though, too, since I believed in getting the most out of my time on the golf course – getting a ton of shots in and seeing areas of the course – off the fairways and greens — that most golfers never get an opportunity to see.

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It’s summertime and my then-boyfriend Pat and I are in Cocoa Beach, Florida, staying with Pat’s mom in their family’s beach front condo. Next door to their condo live year-round residents Stacy and Virginia. Stacy is a retired colonel in the U.S. Army. And he’s blind as a bat. (You’ll see the importance of this statement later on in my story.)

Stacy is quite a character. He’s in his seventies and wears a fairly obvious grayish-white toupee that often times sits somewhat askew atop his peach fuzz head. We’ve all seen the top of his head; that’s how I know he has peach fuzz. When he’s in Cocoa Beach, Pat’s dad, Bob, often takes long walks on the beach with Stacy. Bob always laughs whenever he recounts how, on one of their morning walks, Stacy lifted his toupee up off his head so he could scratch an itch. Who does that?

One time, Pat and I were invited to join Stacy and his wife for lunch at the Officer’s Club at Patrick’s Air Force Base. We meet them just outside Pat’s and their condos on a narrow pathway that will take us to the elevators. We stand there and chat a bit before heading downstairs to get in Stacy’s car – which Pat will drive. During the extent of those few minutes that we’re standing there chatting, I cannot concentrate on anything but the M&M-sized blob of green toothpaste stuck to Stacy’s left cheek. I empathize with Stacy, knowing that a green blob might be difficult for a blind man to see in the mirror, but why wouldn’t his wife suggest that he wipe his face? We drive twenty minutes to get to the club with nary a mention by anyone of the green blob. I couldn’t let the poor officer and gentleman enter the club with that thing on his face! So, I told him.

Between Stacy and Virginia, Stacy does most of the cooking. And you can tell if you ever see their kitchen. My kitchen is messy, sure, but Stacy’s kitchen looks as though he put a bunch of green stuff in his blender and, without a lid, turned it on full blast. Specks of green cover every surface including the walls, countertops, and appliances. Everywhere.

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On our trip to Cocoa Beach this summer, Pat and I are in our twenties and we both play golf pretty regularly. Believe it or not, at Ohio State I actually took a golf class — I was going to write “course” but thought it might confuse the reader – as one of my electives. I had a chance to see my awesome golf swing on video tape before being reamed by the instructor on everything that was wrong with it. It looked fine to me. Anyway, Pat and I think we are such hotshot golfers that we’ve flown our clubs down with us to Florida thinking it will be cheaper than renting clubs every time we play. Truth be told, it was so blazing hot I don’t think we played more than two times.

One evening, Pat is talking to Stacy and invites him to join us for golf the next day. Stacy enthusiastically accepts the invitation. I ask Pat how a blind man is supposed to golf. He shrugs. He hadn’t expected Stacy to accept the invite. He’s blind, for God’s sake!

Oh well. This should be interesting…

And it is.

First of all, we get a golf cart. I probably would have suggested one anyway because of the heat and the alligators that are not uncommon on the course, but we really have to because Stacy walks so s…l…o…w…l…y. In the end, it will take us almost four hours to finish nine holes.

Stacy’s eyesight is so poor, Pat has to tee Stacy’s ball for him and then situate him so the ball is lined up with the center of his body. Then Pat has to turn Stacy’s body so his shot will be aimed at the hole. This takes forever. Stacy is all lined up and then he says something to Pat and ends up moving his whole body in the process. Ugh! Pat goes through the whole process again.

I’m not a very patient person, especially when I’m hot and sweaty. I do not think I will last nine holes.

Stacy takes his shot and miraculously, he actually hits the ball on his first try. But it only travels a couple of feet. Pat lines him up again, three or four more times until his ball is finally on the fairway. I sure hope Pat was watching where it landed. I have a tough enough time following and finding my own ball after I’ve taken a shot; there’s no way I can keep track of Stacy’s too.

As you can see, we are not playing a usual, rule-following round of golf. Thankfully, no one else is on the course. It’s too hot.

I’m up next. I tee up my ball. I align myself with the green, I swing, hit the ball and I’m on the fairway. I pick up my tee, return my club to my bag, slap at a bug on the back of my neck, sit in the cart, and wait for Pat to take his shot. I’m a no-nonsense kind of golfer.

Stacy is standing several feet away and I watch as he starts walking toward me. He’s wearing a hat on top of his toupee and I think to myself that he’s got to be burning up.

Stacy edges up beside me and to my astonishment, the blind man begins critiquing my swing! The man who could not see his teed ball in front of him or any of the shots he took where the ball landed two feet away from him, is coaching me on what I’m doing wrong! If I weren’t so offended, I’d be laughing.

But I’m not laughing; I’m sweating. We have been on this tee for forty-five minutes getting him situated. I am not in a good mood. But I smile and nod and tell him, “I’ll have to work on that. Thanks, Stacy.” But in my heart of hearts I’m telling him to fuck the hell off.

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Pat and I haven’t played golf for years. I haven’t played a round of golf since I moved to California over twenty years ago. And, although I brought all my golfing accessories to California with us when we moved, I long ago donated my golf shoes to Good Will and gave my golf clubs to a yard sale to raise money for the ALS Association. Pat continued to golf for a few years in California until his golfing buddy, Todd, moved with his wife to Seattle.

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When I worked at Frigidaire Company, I remember hearing all the good ol’ boys talking about their most recent golf outings, enthusiastically sharing with their buddies, minute details about their swings, their shots, their scores. It was so BORING! In my opinion, there’s nothing exciting about a round of golf so I couldn’t understand why these guys tried so hard to make their golf games more enthralling than I knew they were. I couldn’t believe anyone cared. I imagine all these middle-aged men were only being polite while they were gearing up to share their own “unbelievable” shots. So now I’ve told you my one and only golf story and I sure hope I haven’t bored you.