I’ve Mastered the Art of Being a Golf Widow
But has he noticed? And do I care?
Trying to follow tiny white balls soaring over chemically enhanced expanses of green; wearing long pants, even on the hottest of days; donning expensive flamingo-colored collared shirts because, well, the sport’s fashion dictates that one must. Telling offensive jokes that make your foursome guffaw in those uncertain “har, har, har” chuckles that attempt to tell us you’re some kind of macho, macho, macho man.
Right.
Don’t give me the business about the Game of Kings (per some Scottish dude) and “no shortcuts on the quest for perfection” (Ben Hogan). I’ve never lived the game, but I’ve lived right next to it for more than 40 years. I’m more in line with humorist Dave Barry when referring to Moker’s favorite pastime.
“Although golf was originally restricted to wealthy, overweight Protestants,” Barry wrote, “today it’s open to anybody who owns hideous clothing.” And I don’t think he was exclusively referring to the late comedian Bob Hope or our 38th President, Gerald R. Ford, although he could have been.
Golf isn’t really a sport. Nobody hits anything but the ball. A ton of golfers opt for a little electric cart, forgoing the four miles or so it would take to walk the course. There’s a dress-code at most clubs —…
