#webbsimpson

My full set of clubs has officially accompanied me to the first of what I hope to be are thousands of holes of golf to be played until I head to the Members Club in the Sky.

On the way to the driving range, I asked a few questions, prefacing that they might be dumb, a statement which acted as the catalyst for a bunch of ha-ha conversation about dumb questions.  I said well how about you let me ask the questions and I'll prepare for you to say something like, "Oh Sweetie, isn't that cute."  Smiling, he grabbed my hand and said, "OK, let me hear it."

It had occurred to me that it was really nice that I could hit a successful drive off the practice tee but I needed to experience whether I could apply any of the knowledge I'd learned from playing Golden Tee on a real golf course.  So, I wanted to know if it's required to pay for and play all 18 holes, ie: could someone play just three holes, for example.  Or, is there such a thing as a practice hole and, if not, is it possible to use one hole on a regular course for practice after all parties are done playing.

Turns out those aren't such stupid questions and the next thing I knew, I was standing at the red tee getting ready to hit my first drive.  Looking at the score card, there's a complicated setup based on yards and pars that indicate which of the four tees to use.  The other three are gold, silver and bronze and are all listed on top.  I don't know if it's sexist or if it's reflective of the club's 1000 to 4 male-to-female membership ratio, but the red tee is code for the women's tee and it is wayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy in front of the others.  

I'm not complaining.  Trust me when I say it is hideously intimidating standing at that sissy red tee, looking at that green 8 million bajillion miles away, holding my shiny red driver, adjusting my posture, trying not to hyperventilate, trying to block my fearful mental chatter that if I mess up, my boyfriend will roll his eyes and rue the day he spent so much money on me, on something he hoped I'd be able to pick up quickly so we could play together, but my lack of skill and ability is a hopeless cause so ...

Anyway, I hit the drive just fine and it made that metallic clicking sound that signals I might not be perfect but I've got enough.  And it landed reasonably on the green.

Mopping the sweat off my brow, I got into the cart and we drove up to the green and that's where the situation broke down.  I asked what club to use, a question met with a really impatient, "figure it out yourself."  I looked at that bag of clubs, so eager to please, and the blue of the bag and the red of the clubs mixed together to make purple, the same way the numbers on a math test used to dance around and make shapes.  I said, "You can't be serious."

My boyfriend.  Love of my life.  Experienced golfer.  Impatient coach.  So handsome with curly hair spilling out of his visor sporting the club's logo.  He realized he'd asked too much too soon, of course, filling me with shame, convincing me he'd take the clubs at the end of this day's session and sell them on EBay.  He picked out a club for me to use and I whiffed it.  He said something about me not understanding the finesse and I whiffed it again.  I made a few more attempts with awkwardness I hadn't felt or experienced since I had a mouth full of braces complete with a headgear I was prescribed to wear 24 hours a day.  8 strokes to sink it, finally.  A 'snowman.'  The hot flames of shame burned in my face like it was a million degrees outside.

Of course, he became the gazelle of golfers and putted the thing into the green  like a pro.  He suddenly acted practically like Webb Frickin Simpson.  Well.  La-dee-dah.  

Driving the cart back to the club I told him my anxieties and he laughed.  I love how I can break through the moat and firewall around his heart and make his handsome face smile so big the power could fuel lights on the golf course during the night.  Still laughing, he said that people take years to learn to golf.  In fact, when he was looking for clubs to buy me, he looked on Craigslist and every single set was billed as, "bought the clubs because I thought I'd try to learn but failed miserably."  Here I put all these expectations on the gift symbolizing some outcome for our relationship I certainly hope for, but has nothing to do with whether I possess skill for golf. 

I also started to look at my golf clubs like a litter of black lab puppies.  They all look the same as a group, but each has its own personality.  I realized I'd spent lots of time loving up on my driver but what I call the 'baby drivers' didn't perform the same, and their handles are shorter.  The wedges feel easier to use, to me, but I learned that's because they're pitched at a more favorable angle.

The next step is to hit the range and develop an intimate relationship with each club.