The Single Life: Golf — A hard lesson to learn

I can remember a vacation some years ago when I was still a Mrs. The destination was a resort by Mount Shasta in Northern California. That area of the state is beautiful.

There are lakes where you can go house boating, rivers you can fish, trails you can hike and golf courses where being part mountain goat helps.The weather was perfect. The resort was rustic enough to offer you your own snazzy cabin and the food was outstanding.

I was in the early stages of trying to learn to play golf. If nothing else, I looked like I knew what I was supposed to be doing. I had the gear, the bag with the tags that showed everyone we had been to the Wigwam, Torrey Pines — all the upscale courses. The shirts I wore all had club names. The visors had names, as well. You never would have known that I was probably the world’s worst player.

Sure I had lessons. Private ones, public ones, on-the-course ones, and every now and then, I could actually hit the ball farther than I could throw it.

The really annoying thing was that I stood too close to the ball after I had hit it. It really all depended on who showed up to play that day.

My mind was either wrapped around keeping my head down and a million other directions, or the me who would rather have a manicure, order lunch by the pool and take a nap. We signed up to play four rounds on this Shasta mountain course, and since we were a twosome, we were paired with another couple. They were nice people.

We introduced ourselves, and I made the usual remark that I truly am a beginner and begged their patience. I really meant what I said, too. It was not a passing remark and now that I look back on those days of pretending that I could play,

I can see that a ‘beginner’ remark may just fly all sorts of red flags to the other players. Either they think I am a liar or I am just so good that I feel bad about showing everyone up. Or, heaven forbid, I really am a lousy player that will hold everyone up looking for a ball that has rolled off the tee.

The tee boxes on this course were all elevated and the fairways narrowed by huge Redwood trees or some other kind of tall pine. One errant ball could well have disturbed a brown bear.

So the morning weather was brisk, we paired up, and wife No. 2 gets to start us off. She is about my height, on the other side of 50 and has on golf shoes that resemble sandals with spikes. Her driver looks much like mine. The head of the driver is about the size of a dinner plate.

A couple of practice swings later, she sends her ball straight down the fairway with so much distance that you cannot see it. Her husband says nothing as he faces his tee shot. A soaring white ball landing also somewhere invisible.

My turn, and although I manage to hit the ball, it makes a sharp crack through the branches of a tree and rests itself on top of a nest of pine needles. I can still see the ball really, really well.

My mate saves the day with an excellent swing, and we are off to find my shot. And so it went for the rest of the first 9 holes. Even when I hit the ball it never landed on the nice green grass.

At the 9th hole, I pleaded guilty to every golf mistake and waved the 3 of them on.

While having a manicure that afternoon, I decided to give myself a break and stop trying to do something that I truly, honest and truly, just did not enjoy. Why continue to suit up when I really didn’t want to be part of the game?

Golf should be a pleasure. Life played well should be a pleasure, too. Simply figure out where you want to land.

Mary Ann Linforth is a Green Valley freelance writer. Contact her at maryannlinforth@aol.com.