Tee Fore Two Too Many

I think Robert Louis Stevenson had it all wrong. He wrote that Dr. Jekyll morphed into Mr. Hyde after drinking a chemical concoction. My suspicion is that the hideous transformation actually took place out on a golf course.

If you disagree, try playing a round of golf with your meekest friend and see what happens after that first double bogey. Male golfers cuss, throw fits and fling their clubs every which way. After a missed putt, some of the most genteel ladies I know make the Incredible Hulk look like a pussycat.

My husband loves the game of golf. He plays regularly and watches it endlessly on TV. He once had visions of the two of us traveling in our golden years to play the best golf courses in every state of the union, so he urged me to take up the game. He even tried to make a golfer out of me himself. The operative word is tried.

It was difficult for me to take his instructions seriously. How could I? He told me to keep my head down, keep my eye on the ball, keep my left arm straight, keep my knees bent, stick my butt out, and explode my hips as I swung a huge club at a tiny ball set up on a spindly little tee—and expected me to hit it. Maybe I shouldn’t have laughed, but damn!

Since I was a beginner, he decided we should play only nine holes on my first outing. I was more than fine with that. I approached the first green in a zigzag pattern and reached it in fifteen strokes. Um, more like thirty strokes if you want to be technical and count the whiffs. As a consequence, I received a stern lecture on the evils of slow play. I should strive to be behind the group in front of me, not in front of the group behind me. What? 

In fairness to the impatient foursome behind us, my “instructor” signaled them to play through. After his third double bogey, he grumbled that my slow, erratic play had thrown his rhythm off and his score was suffering as a consequence. He suggested through clenched teeth that I play every other hole from that point on so I wouldn’t tire myself. He assured me that he wasn’t upset with me. Of course, he wasn’t upset. He was livid. Hell hath no fury like a golfer over par. By the time we reached the sixth tee, I was the caddy.

Perhaps he wanted to experience the agony of defeat again so he could truly appreciate the thrill of victory—if it ever came his way—because he decided to give me one more chance at the ninth and final tee.  He came to regret it. I zigzagged to the green as before. My fairway technique, such as it was, hadn’t improved. If anything, it had deteriorated. So had my putting, and that seemed to undermine his putting proficiency as well.

I’m not certain he deserved the benefit of the doubt for what happened next. He said he was sorry. He said it was an accident. He said it slipped out of his hand, that he never meant to throw it, and that he certainly wasn’t aiming at me. Nevertheless, his putter missed my head by mere inches after his triple bogey on number nine.

And there’s the undeniable proof. My darling husband didn’t need a chemical concoction to change him from Dr, Jekyll to Mr. Hyde. All it took was a triple bogey. Q.E.D.