Whimsy was proving to be an irascible travel companion without a care to a set itinerary. Before I even got to Whakatane, he once again took over the wheel. It was a small tattered faded yellow sign with the words Golf Course that caught my eye like a beacon in the dead of night.
Most golf courses in New Zealand are advertised not with billboards or brochures, but with weathered signs nailed to phone poles, street signs get more fanfare. However, had the sign been suspended over the road with bright neon lights and scantily clad women hanging off it, my notice would have been the same. A golf course was nearby, and that prospect always caused my pulse to quicken.
Brakes were applied with vigor, a three-point turn in the middle of the road, and then I followed the dilapidated sign, over a hill, through a dale, and to a golf course.
I don’t know why I love the game so much or how it lures me onto its playing field with such regularity. I guess it’s the challenge that keeps me coming back and the earnest belief that I could be on the tour if I could just spend enough time playing. I know of no other sport that requires more dedication or inspires more displays of pure unadulterated fury. Nature lent me no natural skills, but I have the right temperament for the game (meaning I’m prone to laugh in the face of adversity), and perseverance that would be the envy of any biblical character.
I swap into proper golfing attire in the parking lot. A quick scan to make sure no one sees me in my undies. Collared shirt, shorts just above the knee, and white socks covering the ankle, standard dress code for most New Zealand courses. The layout looks inviting. It’s a links style course that saunters along the beach. Greens fees are $NZ15 ($US7.50). Someone please stop me from rupturing a spleen here, I mean $7.50! I’ve paid triple that back home on courses that more closely resembled artillery sites than golf courses.
As I limber up on the first tee, a chap by the name of Robert joins me, a local. I welcome his company, but really it’s his on-course guidance I most look forward too.
It turns out Robert is on the Chamber of Commerce for Whakatane. He became a walking brochure. He filled me in on the ups and downs of the dairy industry and forestry interests in the area. Whakatane is not doing particularly well I’m afraid. No growth. Too many people on the dole since the main dairy factory cut back and not enough upwardly mobile youth moving in. The Dairy business has lost some of its mystique over the years, it seems there are only so many ways to milk a cow. So now they’re trying to lure in the retirees with promises of fresh dairy products.
After a few holes, I began to notice a peculiar trend. After every shot Robert hit he would squint down the fairway with a bewildered look on his face, and then he’d turn and ask with furrowed brow, “Did you see where that one went?” He asked the question each time with disbelief in his voice as if the ball simply vanished in flight or entered a low orbit. Even on some long puts I saw the familiar squint and brow crease when the ball rolled past his field of vision, which I estimated to be about twelve feet.
I made it a point to watch his shots, but sometimes as I was thrashing around in the knee-high grass looking for my ball he’d sneak a shot in and I’d miss it.
A yell from across the fairway, “Did you see that one?”
“Huh!?” What in the hell was that? As I was hunting for my ball I roused some type of grouse that went squawking into the air and sent my heart into a near flat line.
“Did you happen to see my last shot!?” Robert shouts again.
I gave him an idiot stare, but he was so distant my well-hewn expression was wasted on him. “Missed it!” I holler back and resume the search for my ball keeping an eye out for skittish fowl.
After giving up on my ball and hitting another, I caught up with Robert and we set up a two-man chain and combed the rough looking for Robert’s ball as if looking for a murder weapon.
The course was a joy, the fairways rambled and rolled, ducked and tucked. A stiff wind came in off the sea and sent my golf balls onto other fairways and into maintenance sheds. The greens were fast and treacherous, golf balls rolled like they would on a concrete driveway.
On the back nine a guy joined us with a unique set of equipment, I could only assume that he must have been lured to the blue light while at K-Mart. His gear consisted of a plastic grocery sack of balls and three clubs. Trey was his name and Robert and I were to be privy to his first round of golf ever, EVER. This is an honor that ranks up there with the thrill of your first toe-splintering stub into the bathroom doorframe.
Timing, it’s all about timing. If I wouldn’t have flubbed my tee shot on the ninth hole we would have missed Trey and his sack o’ balls.
Robert and I hit respectable drives down the tenth fairway, then we watched Trey set up to hit his first tee shot. I could feel the pain already, the Herculean swing, the whiff, the curse, or worse yet the snub shot that travels fifteen violent feet, followed by the inevitable blood lust rage. I know because I’ve been there before, and revisit the place from time to time.
I cringed and busied myself with looking for a tee in my golf bag. Then I heard a crack, not a club cracking, but the distinct sound that resonates from a well-struck ball. I heard Robert say, “Well played.” I looked up from my tee hunt to see a ball bounding down the fairway and coming to rest next to mine. It was two feet behind my ball to be exact.
Okay so it was a bit of luck. His next shot landed on the green and I began to get nervous. The Gods couldn’t be this unkind as to afford a rank beginner with skills beyond what took me fifteen arduous years to chisel out. You don’t just start playing golf, you suffer first, you endanger the lives of others with tee shots, you throw clubs in ponds, you swear solemn oaths to never play again only to break them, and then after years of apprenticeship you begin the long road to mediocrity.
Fortunately when Trey’s putter came out it saved me from the ultimate humiliation. He putted like a novice and I managed to sneak by him with a couple of slick putts while he putted off the scorecard. Order returned to the universe for the rest of the back nine, Trey played how a man with three clubs and a sack of balls should play, badly. I liked Trey though; he had jokes up his sleeve and seemed to enjoy himself – that would pass. Robert still squinted and chafed, but at least we had three in the search party now.
After finishing the round we decided to nip into the clubhouse for a beer, but the bar was closed. Trey and Robert recommended a few restaurants to me and we parted company.
I got back into the car with sand trap sand in my shoes and the sweet scent of wild grasses in my hair. As I pulled out of the parking lot I realized that I forgot to ask for hotel suggestions, no matter, I could find something on my own, and with that I left, unbeknownst that a fatal travel error had just occurred.
The engine roared and I drove into Whakatane proper…
Copyright 1999 Douglas S. Sassaman
About The Author:
Douglas Sassaman is a freelance writer, aspiring novelist, and self-described humorist (who some think should be self-committed). He writes the humor column, 'Life in the Cosmic-Burp' on the web at http://CosmicBurp.com.
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