Tying Knot Not Same As Hooking Up On Golf Links

While catching up recently on some required reading, which means - in my case, at least - scanning back issues of golf magazines, I stumbled across an intriguing article in April’s premiere edition of Golf Digest Woman.

It dealt with a nationwide survey, conducted by the sister publication of Golf Digest, in which golfers were asked to express their likes and dislikes of the sport.

The survey produced some fascinating findings. For instance, 30 percent of the women polled said they fear embarrassment on the golf course. I think that’s remarkable, considering none of them have probably suffered the indignity of dropping their pants after failing to hit a drive past the ladies’ tees. The survey also showed that more than half the women polled, compared to only 28 percent of the men, find bad weather discouraging and distracting. And, yes, “bad hair” was a factor with some. But the result that surprised me most was that married women rated their husbands as their second-favorite golf partners, behind only their close friends.

Really. And when I told my wife, Chris, she snorted in disagreement.

It seems that she would rather work late, do bills or clean up after the dog than play golf with me - or anyone else, for that matter.

For some reason, the sport has never quite grabbed her soul the way it did mine. And nothing I’ve tried over the years has piqued her interest in the game.

Back in the early 1970’s when we were still living in the Midwest, I bought her a set of clubs, along with a series of lessons from the local club pro, who resembled George Clooney.

Chris seemed to love the lessons. She delighted in telling friends about Joe Slick’s thick, black hair, chiseled facial features and tight, beltless and not-so-plain front slacks that golf pros wore back in those pre-pleats days.

Heck, after the lessons ended, she even agreed to play a couple of rounds with me.

Of course, my competitive drive immediately kicked in and for our third outing, I entered us in a tournament - a husband-wife best shot with a field of at least 100 teams.

We played the first round with a favorite aunt and uncle and Chris had a great time. She got a few shots airborne, made a couple of key putts and seemed to revel in the fact that my aunt was an even worse golfer than she was.

The problem came after the first 18 holes when we learned we had qualified for the championship flight. And that some idiot with more money than common sense had purchased us for $250 in the final-round Calcutta, even though we were the last team to qualify. The thought of playing for money - even though it was someone else’s - was not Chris’ idea of a good time, and it showed. She was tight-lipped and nervous on the first tee. And to make matters worse, we were paired with an older, snooty couple who actually thought they had a chance to win.

We were playing poorly anyway, but the clincher came shortly after the turn when we were faced with a rare 4-foot birdie putt. Chris, putting first, left her ball on the lip of the cup, then strolled up and tapped it in - not realizing that we then had to settle for a par, without me getting a chance to putt for birdie.

When the other couple informed her of the rule I had neglected to mention, she gave them “The Look,” and told me she was ready to walk off the course and give up the “stupid game” for good. We finished the round, but I don’t think Chris picked up a club again until we moved to Spokane about five years later. And when she did, the experience wasn’t much better than our tournament nightmare.

I remember her return. She left work early so we could get in nine holes at Valley View, a nice, short executive course I had heard about.

We arrived at the first tee and while I was going through my pre-round stretching routine, Chris pulled out her driver and teed up her ball.

“Aren’t you even going to take a practice swing?” I asked, assuming her swing might be a tad rusty following a 5-year layoff. She just gave me “The Look,” stepped up to her ball and topped it into a thick hedge about 15 feet in front of the tee markers.

Then she threw her club to the ground, turned to me in utter disgust and snapped, “Looks like it’s going to be another one of those years.” Talk about knowing your limitations.

Since then, the grips on that set of clubs I bought her back in Iowa have petrified. I picked her up a new set two years ago and she has used them once - to hit practice balls into the lake at MeadowWood. I have badgered her on occasion to play again, with little luck. But last week she surprised me by booking a golf package as part of the Oregon-coast vacation we’ve planned for later this summer. The golf course she chose was Sandpines, a long, tough and gorgeous layout near Florence, Ore. Golf Digest named Sandpines its best new public course in 1993, and I played it a year later.

It’s a wonderful golf course, but it’s a monster. I don’t think I broke 90, and I was playing pretty well at the time. When I informed my wife that she might be in a little over her head, she didn’t seem to care.

She just looked at me with a twinkle in her eye and said, “So get me some more lessons.”