Life
is Too Short to Hit Out of a Bunker
by Roxanne
Holmes
As a professional
woman in desperate need of a fertile networking ground, I will admit that there
was a "if-you-can't-beat-'em..." aspect to my decision to take up golf. The
golf course was, to me, merely a satellite location for the testosterone-dominated
business world in which I work, where all sorts of high-level wheels and deals
were casually accomplished before the third tee.
I
wanted in on the action and it did not take a rocket scientist to notice that
virtually every business-related conference, retreat, or seminar took place within
suspicious proximity of a golf course. Not
to mention the fact that the men in my office defended the midweek wearing of
a pink polo shirt and khaki pants by sniffing self-importantly, "Hey, I'm playing
New Pine Hills with a client today." I
suspect if I showed up at the office in a two-piece fleece sweatsuit, flip-flops,
and my hair in a ponytail, and explained I was taking a client to the Supine Thrills
nail and facial spa, it would not have quite the same time-honored ring to it.
So I signed up for golf
lessons.
It's got everything
I look for in a sport, sartorially speaking. I can pretty much sum it up in two
words: no Spandex. As far as I am concerned, that is a threshold requirement
for any sport. That, and the absence of the need for protective gear of any kind.
It also does not involve perky white skirts with coy little lace-trimmed panties,
rented shoes, tank tops, micro-shorts, sports bras, or rubber waders. In fact,
it is, from the fashion standpoint alone, the perfect sport. Who doesn't look
smashing in sunglasses, a visor, a natural-fiber blouse, and wide-legged bermudas?
Throw in a McGann hat and, athletically speaking, it just doesn't get any better.
I can't help but note that the men have also made discernible progress on this
front. Pastel shirts and gaudy pants have all but disappeared. Well, except for
the late Jack Lemmon's outfits at Pebble Beach. I'm guessing that the PGA finally
and wisely outlawed white belts and plaid of any kind. Once color television became
commonplace, the future of the sport depended on it.
It
is amazing that a sport so male-dominated is not disgustingly macho. I have now
played several rounds and have yet to see anyone butt heads, slap butts, spike
the ball, do anything resembling the Funky Chicken. The mere image of Arnold Palmer
adjusting himself and spitting is unthinkable. It's also hard to picture golf
fans with faces painted in team colors swinging a hatchet overhead.
This
decorum is even reflected in golfers' names. Famous golfers have perfectly civilized
monikers like Jack or Lee. There is not a Bubba or Mad-Dog
in the lot. The appearance of Tiger on the scene may compromise my whole
theory and portend a modern movement toward ferocity. Nonetheless, any sport willing
to embrace someone named Fuzzy gets my vote.
As
it turns out, the only thing on steroids in this sport is the handbag. As if my
real, self-interested, capitalistic reason were not unseemly enough, I have been
accused of taking up golf in order to have license to carry a five-foot purse.
I admit I started salivating when I was given a golf bag as a gift and imagined
the myriad uses for the numerous, odd-shaped, cleverly placed zippered sections.
Shortly thereafter, I
was so excited to see on the cover of a women's golf magazine the teaser, "What's
In the Pros' Bags?" I could hardly wait to confirm that my and the pros' bags
were crammed with the same essentials: lipliner, Whopper wrappers, hair scrunchies,
car keys, and, of course, my business cards.
Imagine
my disappointment in learning that Alice Ritzman carries in her bag a "Data nine-degree
driver with PRGR graphite shaft, firm flex" and Kris Tschetter carries a "Ping
Eye 2 (red dot) beryllium copper 53- and 60-degree sand wedges with G. Loomis
graphite shafts." I feel so betrayed.
Bunker,
pg 2>>
