Of Snakes Sex Playing in the Rain, Random Thou

by Clay Reynolds

  But that’s a lie. Few foursomes, even on the most rustic of municipal courses, play a round without a minimum of two well-charged cell phones tucked away in their bags; and now, I read, newer model golf carts are coming equipped with power points to facilitate the use of laptops. The fresh air is genuine, of course, provided the course isn’t next to some traffic-choked freeway or buried in the middle of urban industrialization—which most are—but the notion that golf provides exercise is ridiculous. Even Mark Twain knew that. He called it “a three-mile walk, spoiled.”

  Naturally, golf should be a “walking game.” A typical eighteen-hole round should take a player on a three-to-four-mile vigorous hike, depending on how straight he hits the ball. When the prospect of toting a twenty-five-to-thirty-pound bag is added, along with eighty-to-ninety (or maybe a hundred or more) swings of the club, it should be an exhausting but rejuvenating experience. And it would be, if golfers walked. But they don’t. They mostly ride around in electric carts. What with beverage service and drive-through windows at the club houses, there’s no reason to get out at the turn unless nature calls. Some golfers would never leave their carts on the entire round if the course would permit them to drive up onto the greens. In a way, a contemporary round is more like a game of motorized polo, with the players only having to leave their seats and walk no more than two or three steps to the ball when they hit an especially bad shot out of bounds, as if it’s some sort of punishment.

  Indeed, many courses require that players use carts, especially on weekends when the links are crowded and the speed of play is a factor. But most golfers also know that they can carry more beer in a cart than they can in a bag; thus far, there are no legal restrictions on blood-alcohol levels for drivers of golf carts.

  So if the canned reasons aren’t genuine enough to provide motivation to drive otherwise rational and reasonable people out to the course for a round of eighteen, what is the real appeal? There is, after all, a huge downside to the whole experience.

  For one thing, golf is expensive. Apart from the initial purchase of equipment—clubs, bag, caps, shoes, etc., which can run from a few hundred upwards to a couple of thousand dollars, and all of which are outmoded on an annual basis—there’s the question of balls. The average weekend duffer will lose about six balls a round, most of them into water hazards or deep woods or off on the opposite side of busy highways running parallel to a tee-box. On some residential courses, backyards are the unintentional target for many a slice. Some course-side homeowners have posted “No Trespassing” signs or have acquired large, mean canines to prevent ball-shagging. Thus, they can shave quite a lot from their mortgage payments by selling errant balls they collect back to the local pro shops. One backyard I saw faced a particularly nasty dogleg. There were five ten-gallon buckets full of collected balls sitting by his back door. New golf balls run from about a buck apiece for used or “X-Out” or overrun logo editions all the way up to forty or fifty dollars a dozen for the fancier, high-tech products. If a golfer’s game is as bad as mine, and if he buys even the medium-deluxe models, he’s looking at spending nearly as much for lost balls as he does for green fees.

  And green fees are high. Most municipal courses charge anywhere from about fifteen up to fifty dollars a round for weekday play and add about twenty or thirty percent more for a weekend eighteen. Open club courses can get as much as a hundred-fifty a round, and country clubs demand membership and gouge guests heavily as well, especially for concessions, equipment, and necessary accoutrements such as divot-repair tools and cleverly designed liquor flasks. Some private clubs get more for a round of golf than it would cost to buy a pretty nice big-screen television. And all this cost is assessed merely to give the individual player the chance to thoroughly disgrace himself in front of people he knows well and would probably like to impress.

  Then there’s the apparel. Specially designed shirts, sweaters, hats, visors, slacks, shorts, shoes, even socks are more or less required for golf. Some courses have strict dress codes, prohibiting “logo display” or blue jeans to be worn by anyone but the groundsmen. Occasionally, even those poor guys have to wear uniforms. Virtually anyone who is serious about the game doesn’t want to be singled out as a weekend hacker by appearing in less than the height of fashion on the Number One Tee. Overalls and work boots are not apt to be seen on many courses outside Texas, I wouldn’t imagine.

  Next to fishing, no other sporting activity offers a wider array or greater variety of expensive and virtually useless accessories: gloves, tees, club brushes, spike tools, extra spikes, ball fetchers, and even a specially designed “golf umbrella” fill out the average golfer’s kit. Then, there are travel bags, head covers, towels, range finders, binoculars, electronic scorecards, club cleaners, ball washers, and cigar caddies, a small pegged platform on which a player can rest his burning smoke while hooking a ball into the left rough. And, of course, there are limitless libraries of instructional manuals, books, magazines and pamphlets, training clubs, mechanized swing straighteners, special braces, wraps, and bandages, all designed to improve a player’s game and shave strokes off his handicap, although none does. And, in case the experience itself fails to indelibly etch painful sorrow on the soul of the player, one can buy a whole gallery of paintings, prints, photographs, clever signs and desk decorations ranging from paperclip dispensers and mouse pads to lamps and rugs, and even a desk designed in the shape of the “Amen Corner” at some famous course; price tag: $8,999.99, plus shipping (assembly required).

  But expenses aside and frustrations aside, golf is a maddening game. Unlike other sports such as baseball, tennis, or basketball, a few guys can’t just get together and smack the ball around to practice technique and improve form. To practice golf, one has to go to a driving range several times a week and pay (again) for the privilege of mishitting the ball for an hour or so. At most ranges, it’s possible to lay out huge amounts of money for lessons from a “pro,” a guy who never quite made it in the PGA, who will stand around for a few minutes, maybe even shoot some video tape, before making a few elementary suggestions about changing or adjusting a dozen or so things having to do with set-up, finish, stance, grip, swing, balance, head position, knee position, back position, grip-fingering, eye contact, how close one is to the ball, how far away one is from the ball, where the ball is in the stance, take-away, club-facing, aiming, targeting, and the way one holds one’s mouth during set-up, backswing, and follow-through, then leaving the “student” to practice all these things while he adjourns to the air conditioning of the clubhouse bar to have a couple of beers, ogle the girls, and laugh at the silly idiot whose slice is so bad he risks serious head injury every time he swings the club.

  Still, every day, in every part of the country, people like me go out onto a course to try to convince themselves that it’s possible to hit that little white ball with that costly high-tech club and make it go where they want it to. But it almost never does. And if it does, there is always the nagging suspicion that they’ve made some kind of mistake, if only they could remember what it was so they could repeat it. They almost never can.

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  On the amateur level, golf isn’t really a game because it’s noncompetitive. The rules are what they are, but there aren’t many of them, and it’s up to each player which rules he will violate and how often. Cheating, therefore, is okay, because the only one cheated is the cheater. No matter how dishonest one is and how often one gets away with it, the player knows when he’s taken an extra stroke, shaved his score, or moved the ball to a better lie. Self-recrimination is probably found nowhere else—except perhaps in extramarital love affairs—as often as it is in golf.

  Of course, some people gamble on golf. They not only bet on who will have the lowest score, but also on individual holes; they’ll bet on the length of a drive, number of putts, number of pars, number of bogeys, who gets closest to the pin, and whether or not the beverage cart girl will be a blonde or a brunette. (Redheads are a “push” and
everyone re-antes.) The betting isn’t about the money, though, no matter how much is at stake. It’s a weak attempt to stop cheating, but it doesn’t work; instead, it makes it worse. It’s bad enough to realize you had to cheat to maintain some shred of self-respect. When a fifty-dollar wager rides on avoiding another double-bogey, almost any golfer will wait till his partner’s back is turned, then improve his lie.

  Thus, the game is costly to play, has no innate athleticism, promises little satisfaction, offers no honest competitive element, and is almost impossible to master. All players, even pros, are “working on” their game every time they tee-off, and not even the most seasoned veteran ever owns the confidence and finds the personal fulfillment that can come from even the most mundane chores, such as mowing the lawn. Even so, reports from all major media indicate that golf not only is sustaining its popularity in the United States, but that it may well be the fastest growing sport in the country. New courses are being constructed and opened at a record-breaking pace. And there are reasons for this, for golf does have redeeming qualities, as an activity if not as a game or a bona fide sport. Herein its magic may truly lie.

  Now, I cannot speak for the appeal golf may have for women, although I’m sure it’s no less powerful an allure than it is for men, if not for many of the same, then for different but equal reasons. But over years since I’ve been trying to play regularly, I’ve come to a conclusion that the principal allure of golf to men is that . . . well, it allows them to be men, or, more accurately, to be male.

  Don’t get me wrong. Golf is far from a masculine activity. I recall a few years ago, some club or ball or clothing company put out a television commercial that depicted four or five professional golfers of some celebrity walking in slow motion up onto a tee-box. Each carried an oversized driver in one hand and a ball and tee in the other. In the background was heavy, pounding, minor-key, testosterone-suggestive music. It was ludicrous. The first time I saw it was on a television in the “Nineteenth Hole” of a municipal golf club. Somebody yelled, “Hey, you guys. Lookit this!” and the entire place stopped ogling the girls and erupted in derisive laughter. It was funny, but I don’t think it was meant to be.

  The point is that it’s just impossible to equate even the most masculine of professional golfers with other pro athletes. They’re athletic, of course, and, on the whole, I think they’re in great shape and work as hard as any professional sports competitor. They also play for pretty good money. But there’s just something about “playing” in tailored slacks, saddle oxfords, and a cashmere sweater that doesn’t evoke images of blood, sweat, and raw manliness of genuine sport. As a rule, golfers just don’t need a ten-gallon tub of Gatorade strapped to their carts. A cold six-pack will do nicely.

  But there is a machismo about golf, and has nothing to do with the game itself. Primarily, playing a round of golf gives men the chance, as I say, to be male. That is, it gives them a chance to smoke, gamble, swear, scratch, pass gas, throw temper tantrums, be obscene, piss in the bushes, tell dirty sexist jokes, and, not incidentally, drink beer and ogle the girls. In other words, it gives them a chance generally to be their natural selves without fear of being closely observed, overheard, or censured—especially by women. Once they are safely out of the house and onto the fairway, they needn’t worry about some sensitive feminine consciousness responding to what they say or do, and they can look forward to nearly four hours of absolute freedom from political correctness, politeness, tact, and diplomacy. Ironically, they find freedom of self-expression in a game that is, perhaps, governed by one of the strictest codes of etiquette known in modern sports.

  Of course, most of these same advantages can be found in the average tavern, pool hall, or honkey-tonk—and in some bowling alleys, doubtless. But on the golf course there is at least the suggestion of wholesome surroundings and positive activity as well as the ambiance of middle-class prestige; and it’s unlikely that any man’s significant female other can find much to object to in her guy’s whiling away a summer afternoon surrounded by the pastoral beauty of a golf course, even if it was formerly a cow pasture, landfill, or unclaimed swamp, and even if there are girls to ogle.

  Moreover, unlike fishing or hunting or any other traditionally “male-bonding activity,” there’s little danger of drowning or an accidental shooting or of the poor slob getting lucky and bringing home some ugly, bloody, semi-edible dead animal or slimy, nearly spoiled fish for his wife to try to convert into a meal, so he can brag to his buddies. Recalling near birdies and almost eagles seem a good deal more inviting as cocktail party fare than another rehash of “the big one that got away,” or “the twelve-point buck” that was just out of range. And however expensive golf may be to play, it’s still cheaper than a bass boat or a collection of rods and reels, shotguns and rifles, deer leases and duck blinds, and all the other do-dads, gimcracks, and geegaws required by those other sports.

  There’s also little risk in golf of sprained ankles, torn ligaments, thrown backs, concussions, or other debilitating injuries commonly associated with team sports. Unless one trips over the cart path on the way to the beverage cart, a golf injury is highly unlikely.

  Finally, of course, there is the issue of proximity. Golf courses are conveniently nearby anyone’s home, and a daily round still leaves time for household chores and a family dinner. There’s no packing of trucks, trailers, and RVs; no tune-up of outboards or charging of batteries; no propane, flashlights, suitcases, duffle bags, or tackle boxes. Just a bag of clubs, a case of balls, and, of course, a six-pack of beer. Plus, nobody’s worn out after a round of golf. In fact, unless it’s extremely warm, few golfers ever break a sweat until they start ogling the girls.

  There are, doubtlessly, similar appeals found by female players, but I would not hazard even a hint of a guess as to what it might be, except to say, that most women probably relish the notion of being out in the fresh air, away from the job, home, kids, and getting some exercise without the bothersome company of men. The difference, of course, is that even though many of them use carts, women usually mean these things when they say them.

  Mixed-gender golf groups retard and inhibit these appeals, of course, as do days when players stack up on top of one another, crowding the distances between foursomes and demanding at least a semblance of decorum if not decency. But generally, my observation has been that twosomes, threesomes, and foursomes tend to be gender-specific. Men play with men. Women play with women. In case there is any doubt that the golf gods don’t want to keep it that way, note the significant distances between men’s and women’s tees. That’s not because women are physically smaller and need the advantage; I think it’s because it’s annoying to play with people who tee off from different locations, so it discourages mixed groups.

  Thus the recent surge of interest in golf may truly be more of a response to some deeper phenomenon in the American psyche than any desire to be a sportsman or gamester. Most golfers will confess that they don’t play very well. More will confess that they truly “hate the game” and they only vaguely understand why they come out and spend all kinds of money on it.

  But they also know that buried beneath the practical reasons for doing something else—like trimming the hedge, rotating the tires, cleaning out the garage, or taking the kids to Chucky Cheese—there is the irresistible call of the masculine wild, the attraction of being in the society of individuals who understand one another and are sympathetic to the need for honest expression and uninhibited juvenile behavior, the unmatched and primeval fundamental good feeling and incredible adrenaline rush that comes from hitting a truly good shot and being able to say, “Man! I knocked the piss outta that one!” and not having to look around and see who might be listening.

  So I suspect that golf will be around for a while longer and will continue to grow in popularity. I was told recently that over 11,000,000 Americans go out to the links at least twice a month to lose balls and humiliate themselves. The average handicap among amateurs is somewhere b
etween twenty-five and thirty, and the average expenditure on the game runs close to fifteen hundred dollars a year. That may be a small price to pay for a few hours of freedom from reality and an opportunity to renew one’s conviction that there are just some things in life that can never be mastered but offer other incentives that are alluring and always tempting to sample. And besides, there’s always the possibility that a new oversized platinum-coated, feather-weight driver with the skid-proof grip, latex-coated super-flex shaft, and gyro-balanced, stainless steel-faced head will finally provide an extra twenty yards right down the middle. And if it doesn’t, well there’s cold beer in the clubhouse and always some girls to ogle.