I don't golf. I don't even like the basic premise of golf:
hitting a small ball with a skinny stick toward a hole
you cannot see. However, never let it be said that I have
a small mind when it comes to this particular sport. When
my oldest son turned 30, I took him to Florida for our
first-ever all-alone vacation. I whisked him away from
his wonderfully understanding wife and three beautiful
children and the two of us spent five delightful days
together exploring, biking, hiking along the seashore,
pigging out on seafood and, since golf is one of Michael's
passions in life, we even went golfing.
I figured golfing with a real partner would be more fun
for Michael than going it alone with a whacked-out mother
who only wanted to drive the cart. So I asked my dear
friend Shirley, age 68, to golf with Michael. It was a
match made in heaven. Shirley proved to be on a level
of golf expertise similar to my son's.
It wasn't easy talking the man at the clubhouse into letting
me go along without paying. "Mister, I am not golfing.
I've never golfed, I never intend to golf. I don't even
like golf. I just want to drive the cart. I will pay for
the cart. I just don't want to pay for the golf.
"I promise I won't even touch one of those skinny
sticks." The man wiped his brow and reluctantly agreed
to let me on the course.
I learned to drive the cart in 10 seconds flat. Forward,
reverse, right, left, spin around. I revved that little
machine into world cup competition and had more fun sashaying
around that course than I did in the bumper cars at Disneyland.
"Mom! Don't get so close to the green!"
"Slow down! I'm getting whip-lash,"
Shirley hollered as I cackled demonically pressing my
foot to the floorboard.
While the two real golfers dinked around the sand traps,
ponds, woods and the rough edges of the course, I discovered
I had another duty.
"Mom, come on, you
have to be the flag holder on the green."
Yes! More fun. More exercise. I leaped from my motorized
throne, ran up to the green, grabbed the flag, held the
flag, waved the flag, marched around, started singing
"I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy" and tried to entertain
myself while those two Arnold Palmer wanna-be's tried
to get the little ball into the "Ah, now I can see
it!" little hole. After listening to a few mild cuss
words when the little ball missed the little hole by inches
time after time, I'd replace the flag and race back to
the cart so I could whisk them and their clubs to the
next tee.
I pressed the pedal to the metal. "Whee! Golfing
is fun!" I shouted to the birds. Then I noticed I'd
left Michael behind. I spun around on a dime in a flourishing
Mario Andretti move to retrieve my son only to hear, "No,
go on. Mom, it's OK, I want to walk."
Fifty yards down the fairway I hollered, "Hey, look,
Shirley, there's somebody's ball over there in the woods."
I jumped out, ran into the trees, grabbed the ball and
tossed it into the back of the cart. I thought to myself,
This is more fun than looking for Easter eggs.
"I think that was Michael's ball ... the one he's
playing on this hole."
"Oh, sorry."
I tossed the ball back into the trees, hoping Michael
didn't notice.
"Look over there, Shirley.
Grapefruit trees, right here on the course! You sure don't
get free grapefruit when you golf up north," I said
as I scurried up the limbs of one tree whose fruit was
just out of reach. I grabbed as many large yellow grapefruit
as I could carry and waddled back to the cart.
"Michael, look! I got 13 free grapefruit! I'm telling
you, I love golfing!"
At the next hole when my son and my friend were discussing
some goofy distance calculation and which club to use,
I watched large graceful herons, egrets and the strangest
walking, squawking chicken-like bird creatures I've ever
seen. Even the Beware of Alligators signs posted at each
pond, lake and stream on the course made for interesting
viewing.
Golfing was as much fun as going to the zoo.
All in all, it was a day to remember. Michael and Shirley
remember their scores. I think they were nice and high.
I remember how much fun I had. It was like being at Disneyland,
a flag-waving parade, a citrus orchard and the zoo all
wrapped into one grand 18-hole adventure. Now when people
talk about golf, I don't make a face and say, "What,
you're going to waste your time and money playing pasture
pool, aiming for a hole you can't even see?"
Nope, now when I hear someone mention golf, my eyebrows
pop up and I offer to be their driver. See how much fun
you can have when you simply adjust your attitude a little?
(Lorenz is the author of "Stuff That Matters
for Single Parents" and "A Hug A Day For Single
Parents," as well as stories in 14 of the Chicken
Soup for the Soul books.) |
