Bunker, pg
2
The courses
are invariably naturally arid deserts that have been transformed by unconscionable
amounts of water into lovely verdant landscapes. But the game itself interferes
somewhat with my desire to commune with nature and celebrate our cosmic one-ness.
I do find raking the bunker to have a certain Zen-like therapeutic effect. The
actual game is, of course, impossible. As it turns out, golf clubs, unlike golf
bags, are not the least bit user-friendly. The mere notion that one could, while
standing upright, strike a tiny sphere on the ground with a long, skinny pole
is laughable. To assume it can be done with accuracy and power is downright demented.
No offense to those virtuous golfers who walk the course carrying their bags,
but I'm guessing that the sport is not high on the endorphin index, either. Yes,
if it weren't for the actual playing of the game, this definitely would be the
perfect sport.
Despite
my own lack of proficiency, gender is not much of a disadvantage in golf. A slow,
careful swing and good equipment can approximate the same result that large biceps
and sheer power provide. No, oddly enough, the male advantage in golf is not physical.
It's mathematical. They've developed these goofy betting games that definitely
favor the left-sided brain. I think I can master 'skins,' but I need a laptop
for 'bingo, bango, bongo' — the name of which I always found mildly lewd.
And when someone suggests "multiple presses or greenies, birdies and sandies on
a Nassau," I just fling him my wallet and tell him to take whatever he wants.
As with so many things,
my true forte turns out to be not in the substance, but in the appurtenant.
I am a downright savant in aprés-golf. The clubhouse ritual of a cold beer and
a fat-laden snack come naturally to me. I was recently spotted spreading mud on
my pant cuffs and scribbling on a score card, before hoisting my clubs out of
my trunk and heading directly from the parking lot to the clubhouse bar, where
I set up shop with a pile of my business cards directly in front of me and waited
for hapless business opportunities to walk by.
One
negative (aside from the unsightly little ankle-level tan line) is the unparalleled
world of gag gifts that playing golf invites. I had barely hung up the phone from
scheduling my first lesson when my daughter presented me with a collector's plate
of a fantasy fairway featuring a waterfall, butte, ocean and alligator-infested
moat. I didn't get the joke. That's how most fairways actually look to me. It
was followed closely by a club-handed watch, a "I'd Rather Be Golfing" license
plate frame, and a "Golfers Do it With Follow-Through" bumper sticker. I wondered
where, in this classy sport, the market for such kitsch is . . . until I saw an
electric coffee-mug-warming-coaster that doubles as an indoor putting cup and
screams "fore" whenever you touch it. Those pink, personalized tees have got to
go, though.
So far, my
athleto-business plan has been met with astonishingly limited success. Golf has
provided me with an activity with which to entertain clients, a venue for meeting
colleagues, and a conversational topic common to many of my professional peers.
It has also introduced me to contacts and friendships that seemed woefully inaccessible
because of my gender. As it turns out, however, the entire benefit of such contacts
is instantly eliminated whenever I explain that I would not consider keeping score,
and life is just too short to hit out of a bunker.
Bunker,
pg 1<<
Roxanne
Holmes has been an attorney in San Francisco for 18 years. She practiced in a
law firm for 13 years, and now works for the California Supreme Court. She is
the mother of an adult daughter, and lives in Berkeley with her beloved black
Lab. You can reach Roxanne by email:SWWPub@aol.com
