There’s something very intimidating about Yosemite, and I’m not talking about the granite.
Again, I found myself feeling like a well-dressed pork rind with no place to skate. I’m standing at Degnan’s Café in the park, and I realize I’m the only one in this room who has only four pockets on there pants. I can’t for the life of me figure out what all those other pockets (shorts or not) could be for. I’m outnumbered. There must be a reason, actually several reasons. I count nine pockets on the pants next to me—are they even called pants?
I begin to feel a bit more alien as I check the footwear. I’m looking down at my “Just do it” Nikes and everyone else is wearing “We’ve already done it twice” boots.
And another thing: there is much too much “health” in this room. They’re all wearing that “I’ve been taking vitamin e since before birth” skin—you know, that health-store “tan” look where the only four-letter word they know is M-E-A-T? The uber-elderly couple next to me looks like they could have been on the Lewis and Clark expedition; they are arguing over which scone they should have with their water. The man has an item for every pocket on his short pants. (I have a bit of change in my left pocket.)
I want to buy that cinnamon donut, but I notice as I reach for it all the heads turn my way. I play with it for a while, making all those heads turn as I reach and retract, reach and retract. Finally the guy behind the counter clears his throat, smiles, and shakes his head. I can’t tell whether he wants me to stop orchestrating or he wants me not to go for the donut. I’m getting a little annoyed. I want to announce I’m going outside to start on my second pack of Marlboros since I woke up a few hours ago.
I don’t do it. I’m shamefully bathed in a pocket deficit I can never hope to fill.
It starts on the range. Hope springs eternal on the range. I stretch, squat, twist, and take my practice swings. I’m ready for a relaxing round.
The Starter comes over and informs me the course is packed and we’ll have to play with another twosome. This does not make me happy. It certainly doesn’t make Sally happy; she plays two or three times a year and is undecided about which she dislikes more, golf or reflux. She’s not happy about anyone witnessing her game. She’s a good sport, and I believe she looks upon these fairway outings as a responsibility to maintain the peace while burning calories.
From a distance I recognize the couple driving to the first tee. I had watched him on the range, hitting balls so high and far I was sure a few never came down. He was smooth and consistent; each deliberate swing seemed to mirror the last. I hated him immediately.
We drive over to the first tee, only to see Mr. Atmosphere’s ball already teed up on the black tees, the championship tees, the tips—the you-will-never-get-a-par-from-here tees.
I wasn’t going to let it depress me; depression, after all, is supposed to come after the round.
I notice he’s playing Taylor blades. I’m using irons advertised to be so forgiving you’d be forgiven if you were the guy behind the grassy knoll.
I’m tempted to ask his handicap, but I decide to go military: don’t ask, don’t tell.
Sally says, “Look how far away your white tees are from those!”
I say, “Yeah, normally distances like that involve passports.”
Which one is it, my ego, my masculinity, my game, my age—or is it that I can’t seem to clear my throat and I’m afraid when I introduce myself it’ll come out as if I just took a breath of helium?
I’m playing my mortgage payment and I’m going to get every yard’s worth! I’m not going to blink, I’m going to man up and pretend this is no big deal: John Wayne golf.
I introduce myself and look down at the fairway. I’m hoping I can reach the fairway from here, and then I notice he’s waiting to hit his ball because there is a foursome about 350 yards away. I can feel myself physically shrinking. So much for John Wayne golf; suddenly I’m a Lilliputian waiting for Gulliver to take a swing.
Finally the fairway is clear enough for Mr. Atmosphere to begin his game. He stands over the ball, looks down the fairway as if he pities it, and draws back his swing. It’s the range all over again: the ball has been ignited and I am prepared to see the second stage when suddenly I notice the ball veering right. The wind has made a choice—me! His ball concedes to the wind and appears to go out of bounds. He stares at the point of exit and frowns. I say something encouraging I don’t mean, and promptly tee up my ball and hit it barely 200 yards—but at least I can see my ball!
And so it went. Golfers will congratulate anything if they don’t know your game and you hit a fair shot. And so it went.
Aside: So you know those courses where, on the second hole, they place a chest with pencils, scorecards, ball markers, and tees? Well, I open the chest and stare down at a zillion tees. Free tees—no sign that says, “Help yourself to a reasonable number of tees.” Sally comes over to see what I’m staring at. She whispers, “Don’t do it.” (How many tees would be $235 worth?) “Never crossed my mind,” I lie.
On hole 12, the absurdity of the day arrives and reports directly to my ego and choice of tees. Par 3: 241 yards and into a generous wind. Gulliver hits his best drive of the day, comes up about 20 yards short. “Wow, I thought I hit that 3 wood perfectly,” he says.
I pull out my driver, prepared to go hernia if need be. I want to reach that green! My practice swings are making that high-pitched swishing sound, and the wind is helping the octave.
I’m sure I’ve never looked so good topping a ball! Gulliver shrugs and Minnie Mouse tiptoes behind him. And so it went.
Tips … are for waiters!
Hole 12 241 Yards (Can you see the people on the green?)
