This week’s spin cycle, brought to us by Sprite’s Keeper (www.spriteskeeper.com), is about Relaxation.
My wonderful husband, Jeff, introduced me to the relaxing game of golf. Before I met him, my thing was shagging, which is the official dance of South Carolina. It was invented in Carolina Beach, back in the 1950’s, by a man named Chicken Hicks. Kinda like a slow Lindy, or a slow swing, it’s danced to Beach Music, (think:Under The Boardwalk), by barefooted Southerners on a sandy wooden dance floor, while carefully holding a bottle of beer in their free hands.
Anyhow, bein’ a Yankee and all, he didn’t know a darn thing about shaggin’, nor could he appreciate the finer points of it, so I quickly figured out that I’d have to learn how to play golf, if we were to have any shared interests, which I think are real important in a marriage. So for the past eight years, I’ve been chasin’ a bunch of little old white balls around, y’all.
We went and played yesterday, at “our” course….The Bucaneer Golf Club in good ole Burgaw, NC. And it was such a relaxin’ time. It was a perfect November day. There was the bright sun a-shinin’, a nice cool breeze, all the pretty trees changing into bright fall colors, droppin’ leaves all over the green fairways. Which makes it real hard to find yer ball when it’s rolled underneath a bunch of leaves, that the people who are supposed to be takin’ care of the course can’t be bothered to come out and rake off of the fairway. But it’s real relaxin’. Even though a dozen balls can cost upwards of 40 bucks, that’s about $3.40 per ball, but we’re relaxin’, so who cares, right?
Then there’s the ponds. So pretty to look at. Never mind that they take on the errie quality of bein’ magnets to the particular brand of golf balls that I carry in my bag. Nope, it doesn’t matter that every time I stand up at the tee box to hit a ball over a body of water (whether it be a pond, stream, crick, or mud puddle) my ball will absolutely, magically and other-wordly be drawn to the geographic CENTER of that body of water. No. I really don’t mind sacrificing 5 or 6 balls on the front nine (to the tune of $3.40 each), because I’m so relaxed. It’s a relaxing game.
Once in a while, my ball will land in the edge of a pond or in the tall grass alongside of a crick, but it doesn’t matter, y’all. That ball is still as lost as lost can be, cause you got to understand, there’s alligators in the ponds and water moccasins in the cricks, or ditches. They lay there and look at you, and they have this aggressive looks in their beady eyes that say, “Don’t F*** with me,” so we don’t. They have teeth, and they might be hungry.
I love the fact that golf is such a genteel, gentlemanly game that is practiced with a universally accepted set of ettiquette rules. Like, when you are a group of six white-headed old men, who can barely see your balls, much less FIND them in the leaf-covered fairways, you really should wave through the twosome behind you, which can play alot faster and are waiting on you for, oh, at least 10 or 15 minutes on each hole. I like how this same group of old bastards manage to get out right ahead of us almost everytime we play. What REALLY tickles me to death is how they absolutley REFUSE to turn around and even ACKNOWLEDGE that we are there, even when Jeff hits a tee shot right into the midst of them and we give up hoping they’ll do the right thing and let us through, and we skip one of the holes altogether, so that we can finish up and get home before dark.
Like I said, it’s real relaxin’. Except when you hit a ball “thin”, and it rolls along the ground right into a bunker, and then you hit the next shot “fat,” and the balls flies short, right into the NEXT bunker (yes, there are ALWAYS multiple bunkers!) and then you stand too far away from the ball, and you “hit it off the toe” and it flies due right, to the other side of the cart path into the “rough” (alot of big ole grass and fallen branches and snakes and stuff) and you use your pitchin’ wedge just to try and knock it back into the fairway and you “skull” the ball and send it into a ditch, and you have to “drop” another ball and hit it, which costs you TWO whole points, and it has to go OVER the ditch, which bein’ a body of water, (albeit dinky), it gets pulled in by that magnetical stuff I already explained to you, and you lose ANOTHER ball, and have to drop ANOTHER one, which costs ANOTHER TWO POINTS, which you hit, by the way, PERFECTLY, except that your aim is off just a tichy, so the ball flies slap-dab into the middle of a tree trunk and ricochets BACKWARDS right towards you husband, who screams, “FORE” (don’t ask me, I have no idea what it means, probably one of those genteel southern ettiquette things) and he ducks, and then your ball is right back to almost where you started.
And my score on this hole is, so far, nine. It’s supposed to be four, to be “par”. Or five to have a “bogie”. Or six to have a “double bogie”. Who the hell knows what a nine is called? But, it’s not good. So, bein’ a true southern gal, it’s right about now that I decide to pitch a true Hissy Fit. I hop back into the cute little car, called a “cart” and take a long swig of the beer that we have illegally hidden in our cooler, and announce to my Yankee, experienced, golfer husband, (with tone), “I think takin’ shag lessons would be ALOT more fun than this messy crap!”
Like I said, y’all, it’s a realxing game.