Angela Dove: Award-Winning Writer

The coming of summer leads me to question a pledge I made long ago. A pledge about golfing. A pledge that saves lives . . .

Maybe it’s the incredible bright green of early spring. Maybe it’s my new plaid purse. But for some reason, I have been sorely tempted to give the game of golf another try.

But I can’t. I vowed I wouldn’t.

Lives depend on it.

My grandmother was a wonderful golfer. She no longer plays, but her house is cluttered with trophies and platters from tournaments passed. Nana used to take me to her country club and try to explain the game, her techniques, some other stuff. I wasn’t really listening. I was too busy bugging her to let me drive the cart.

In college I needed a PE class. Tennis had been my sport of choice, but torn ligaments ended that. What about golf? Still outdoors, in a nicely manicured area, and a social game to boot! I perused my college course list. There was a beginning golf class at a time when I was otherwise free. Perfect.

I arrived at the driving range a few minutes before class. There was a small trailer parked on the springy turf, and the few other students willing to take an early morning class were lounging against it and chatting quietly. There were five of us. One guy had a set of clubs, “hopeful hand-me-downs” from his father.

Our instructor arrived in an honest-to-god custom golf cart. He sported tasseled shoes, a polo shirt, and shorts made from the best in Martha Stuart table linen. He face was tanned leather beneath his terrycloth-lined sun visor, and he appraised us frankly.

“Whose played before?” he barked.

The guy with his dad’s clubs raised his hand. “I’m not very good.”

“Anyone else?”

Nervous silence surrounded the group.

“I’m a dab hand at a cart,” I offered, smiling.

He ignored me. “Alright, let’s get you bunch started then. Lesson one: the putt.”

I turned to the guys next to me. “Let’s give him a hand setting up the little windmill, shall we?”

He jabbed a finger at me. “You just volunteered to go first.” Darn my humor reflex in the face of intimidation! He intended to show me up with his own golfing prowess. That was no challenge. In the area of natural golfing ability, I’m parked in the blue zone with a tag hanging from the rearview mirror.

The next few months passed in a whirlwind of beautiful mornings and abject humiliation. I finally developed a decent putt and was allowed to go on to “chipping,” which allows the ball to hop over the green for a few short yards and land within putting distance of the hole.

“Chipping is your best maneuver in a sand trap!” our Sergeant declared with the same intensity he would have used if we were actually under enemy fire. “The sand can burn you! Burn your game! Burn your victory!” 

Chad, the kid with his dad’s clubs, nodded fervently. During the course of the semester he had finally won his father’s approval, and had gone so far as to start wearing clothes that looked like they were made from garish sofa upholstery remnants. But come on, the guy was actually named “Chad.” What choice did he have?

The instructor called me to the green and explained the chipping technique, a sort of scoop and fling maneuver that looked absolutely impossible. I lined up the ball. I swung. And the ball went into a short, beautiful arc that ended four yards directly in front of me. Sarge and I just stared at it for a minute, mutually shaken in our hitherto firm belief in my golfing ineptitude.

“Good job, er . . . Amy.” He said gruffly.

“Thanks,” I answered, too stunned to correct him.

I tried a few more swings with the same results. Amazing. Finally I had found my calling. I was Amy the Chipper.

What happened between that moment and the chipping test, I’ll never know. But what I do recall with the absolute clarity of any near-death experience is that on the last day of class I was called on to chip for a grade. My fellow students were lolling against the trailer, looking on and chatting quietly. Captain Golf stood nearby, clipboard in hand.

“Whenever you’re ready, Amy.”

I took my swing. The ball ricocheted off the side of that trailer with enough force to leave a permanent pock mark on its dingy white aluminum. One girl screamed. Chad was flat on the ground, having thrown himself down regardless of potential unsightly grass stains to his already unsightly madras. Another guy had spilled hot coffee down his front and was cussing in the kind of high pitched voice usually reserved for animated rodents.

The instructor gamely offered me another shot. I don’t recall how I did. I only remember that every other person on that field ran to the other side of the trailer, and wouldn’t come back until the club was out of my hand.

That was the day I gave up golf. I considered it a public service. But now I find myself looking out at the many golf courses in our area and thinking, surely I wasn’t that bad.

Then again, dented aluminum siding doesn’t lie.