Authors: Bill Giest
“Hole-in-one”
—not applicable to your game. Nor are: “honors,” “eagle,” “birdie,” or “par.”
“Bogey”
—one over par, a long-term goal.
“Double bogey”
—aka a “buzzard”—an attainable goal.
“Triple bogey”
—think of it as your par.
“Deep grass squirt”
—those shots that go five feet in tall grass. Often in succession.
“Topped dribble”
—also known as a chopper, a short bouncer, another part of your “short game.”
“Knick knack paddy wack”
—percussive sounds your ball makes ricocheting deep in the woods.
“Whiff”
—when you swing and miss. We call it a practice shot, real golfers count it as a stroke.
“Pitch”
—for golfers a short wedge shot to the green. For us it’s literally a pitch of the ball either under- or overhanded.
“Hand wedge”
—what you use for pitch shots. Also, “hand mashie” or “five-finger iron.”
“Sand hand wedge”
—blasting out of sand by tossing ball and a handful of sand for authenticity.
“Foot wedge”
—novices are allowed “free kicks” in golf.
“Bisque”
—an agreed-to extra shot.
“Bisquick”
—rapid extra unagreed-upon shot taken before others notice.
“Mashie”
—5-iron. (Also, stepping on opponent’s ball, making it almost impossible to hit.)
“Baffing spoon”
—9-iron.
“Mashie niblick”
—7-iron.
“Smashie da-stick”
—breaking club over knee.
“Bashie dose-pricks”
—group behind you hits a ball into your group, you tee it up and bash it back at them.
“Crashie”
—your ball hits waiter carrying full tray in patio dining area.
“Gashie”
—your ball hits another player in forehead.
“Flashie”
—your ball hits a series of objects with one shot (e.g., cart-tree-partner).
“Gnashie”
—club member’s teeth grinding when he realizes he could be thrown out for inviting you.
“Rashie”
—woman who relieves herself in woods and uses poison sumac to tidy up.
“Splashie”
—ball hit into club swimming pool, soup, or beverage.
“Relief”
—rules helping golfers out of sticky situations, or what we get in bushes.
“Nearest point of relief”
is where you drop your ball or your pants.
“Break”
—contour of the green or what car windows do when we play.
“A day at the beach”
—taking three or more shots to get out of sand trap.
“Fade”
—an intentional slice by a skilled player. Useful in implying that your shot into that condominium on the right was intentional:
“I’d been meaning to get together with those folks for some time.”
“Draw”
—an intentional hook. Useful in implying that you were trying to hit it into that cupholder in the Chevy Tahoe.
“Sandy”
—when a real golfer hits out of the bunker and 1-putts. Or, when we hit it from one bunker across the green into another bunker.
“Wormburner”
—bad golfer’s constant companion, usually a fairway wood shot that races through, while never completely losing touch with,
the grass.
“Duck hook”
—another weapon in the bad golfer’s arsenal, a plunging hook, similar to a “Snappy Tom.”
“Free drop”
—the legal dropping of your ball elsewhere after it has landed in, for example, ground under repair.
“Pocket drop”
—hole golfers cut in a front pants pocket from which they discreetly make illegal ball drops down their pant legs after yelling,
“Oh here’s my ball in the fairway!”
“Unplayable lie”
—you saying you found your ball in the cup.
“You didn’t club me right”
—an important phrase for bad golfers. Used to blame caddies for suggesting the wrong club and causing our poor shots.
“Taxiing”
—picking up ball and driving it to green in cart.
I
’ve been invited to play golf at an exclusive private country club!
I know I’m not ready for this caliber of play or social interaction. But I accept, drawn by the thought that maybe I could
beat women. Little women. Little middle-aged women.
Diane invited me. She is a woman not much over five feet tall, and while still quite attractive and girlish-looking, is really
just a few years younger than me. Maybe I could beat her. She invited me to play golf with her, and with two other women,
one of whom was Val, who isn’t all that big either, and who had complained recently of a rotator cuff problem. So maybe I
could beat her. Unfortunately, the third woman turned out to be Rick, Diane’s husband. Apparently the third woman in our foursome
decided it might be too dangerous to play with me. She has children to think of.
Diane’s club carries an aura of distinction, formality, and history. It seems to have been founded about the time the
Mayflower
landed and our nation’s first white families waded ashore in their golf spikes. That’s the feeling you get when you drive
up the club’s long, winding, tree-lined driveway, past the sign proudly proclaiming the founding date, then past a forbidding
“Members Only” sign, where you half expect a checkpoint with armed guards doing blueblood tests and asking if your mother
was in the DAR. The golf course itself is ranked among the finest in the New York area, and many of golf’s all-time greats
have played here over the years. It costs more than $50,000 to join—and, no, you can’t.
This would be my first golfing experience at a real country club, although I did make out with my girlfriend on a green during
a ninth-grade dance at our local club, and enjoyed that very much until the automatic sprinkler system came on. Not mine,
the golf course’s.
Preparing for the big day at Diane’s club, I must admit I was a bit nervous, about my golf, and about my manners (etiquette
does not come naturally to me), and, you know, just being
clean
enough and everything to pass muster. The club’s a bit stuffy. Old school. Once after several hours of drinking and dancing
at a wedding reception there, I removed my tuxedo jacket only to have a sentry rush over and instruct me to put it back on.
Later, however, another guest would remove his slacks on the dance floor, which certainly took some of the pressure off me.
What to wear? Would this be black tie optional golf? I frantically dig through several closets before finding my pair of white
golf shoes, which are fashioned from rich, Corinthian polyvinyl chloride, the ones someone gave to me absolutely free (and
at a cost to them of at least $9.95). But, are white golf shoes like … gay? I wondered. These are the kinds of things novices
just don’t know. I’d heard that loud pink and green plaid polyester pants are no longer the thing, so I threw on my newest
polo shirt, a light golfy sweater, and a pair of khakis—turning on all the bedroom lights to ensure my WASPy duds were spotless.
A member had lent me her club rule book to peruse before my visit: “Male golfers must wear shirts with collars at all times,”
it instructed, and at a place like this, that could mean even in the shower. So I definitely ruled out my “Let’s Go Met’s”
T-shirt (the one I’d worn to renew my vows). You’ve got to
blend
.
Club rules stated: “Golf shorts may be worn; however, jeans, brief shorts, or ‘cutoffs’ are not permitted.” That seemed semireasonable,
although some jeans look a hell of a lot better than some of the flammable golf slacks you see out on the course. “Brief shorts”
are underwear, aren’t they? And cutoffs I pretty much reserve for mowing the lawn and Saturday nights at the Ponderosa with
the missus. Some clubs don’t allow shorts at all.
The rules are even tougher on women: “Female golfers must wear golf dresses, skirts, culottes, slacks, or Bermuda length shorts.
Brief skirts, brief shorts, tank tops, or jeans of any description are NOT permitted.” The club really hates jeans—even if
they’re $300 Versaces. Some members recently wanted to loosen up and have a square dance, so they petitioned the board for
a denim exemption for one night only and were flatly refused. Do-si-do in your tux-e-do.
Too bad about no miniskirts on the golf course, but men say it is difficult to putt when you’re excited—mentally
or
physically (see the Rules of Golf under “Obstructions”). I’ve been told of officials at other clubs measuring a woman’s shorts
to find that they were more than an inch and a half above the knee, and ordering her to leave.
But there are even more pressing issues for me. Like, no clubs. I still don’t own any clubs. (Not to mention, no game. I still
don’t really have a golf game.)
My wife isn’t home so I decide I’ll use her clubs—appropriate, I think, for me to play with women’s clubs when playing against
women. I’m walking out the door when I notice that all but three clubs are still wrapped in bubble plastic because they’ve
never been used. Not good. I tear at the wrapped clubheads with my fingers and teeth, spitting little bits of bubble plastic
on the living room carpet. I also remove the tags from the new golf bag, as well as the brown paper stuffing in its zipper
pockets.
When you drive in, right after the “Members Only” sign, there’s one reading “Valet Parking Only.” A Mercedes—bus? No, it’s
a huge sedan—and a big BMW are right behind me. It’s like the Berlin Auto Show. My car’s imported, but from a country that
more or less sat out World War II. Also it’s a year old. And leased. Can they tell? Is it okay? Luckily, I’d gone all the
way with the Super Deluxe Package at the car wash a few days before—with carnauba wax and the “New Car” fragrance freshener.
Pulling under the porte cochere, a lad leaps out the front door of the club, starts calling me “sir,” unloads my golf bag,
then speeds off in my car. He has either accepted it for parking or he’s trying to get it off the premises as fast as he can.
I’ve witnessed the latter when someone drives a Ford Fiesta up to the front door of the Beverly Hills Hotel.
Another fellow hustles off—somewhere—with my wife’s clubs. Where is he taking them? I recall the story of valet parking attendants
at a restaurant in Florida who were not affiliated with the restaurant but rather with a stolen car ring. A victim was quoted
in the paper as saying he didn’t give a damn about his car, but his new set of golf clubs was in the trunk.
The guy in the car right behind me happens to be a friend, John, who shows me to the pro shop and starter’s area. “I didn’t
know you played,” he says. “I don’t,” I reply. We pass through the bar, and the liquor looks delicious, and quite necessary,
but we keep moving.
John points out at the course. “I got a hole-in-one right over there,” he says with a laugh. “Yeah, I teed off on that hole
over there and hooked it onto the practice putting green and it went in the hole.” I’m glad to hear it, glad to know my brand
of golf has been seen here before.
Bill, the golf pro, is friendly. He’s just had lasik eye surgery, which he says could take more strokes off my game. (Lasik
Eye Surgery: -3 strokes, that’s a total of minus 62!). A friend suggests I take a lesson from Bill. “He’s great if you’re
at a 9 and want to get to a 3,” my friend says. Sounds good until I realize he’s not talking about going from 9 shots
per hole
to 3 shots per hole—something I’d love to do—but, rather, from a 9
handicap
to a 3.
We meet Dave, the starter, sort of an air traffic controller of the golf course. This course has twenty-seven holes, and I
ask him if he could sort of hide me somewhere out there. But golf is too popular these days for that. He’s giving me a break
just letting me play. If he sizes up a foursome and decides they’ll delay other golfers, he can keep them off the course altogether—and
at this point I’d probably tip him handsomely to do just that.
According to club rules, however, it’s ultimately the members’ duty to have knowledge of “the ability of invited guests …
members are responsible for the conduct, appearance, etiquette, and speed of play of their guests.” Yikes. My friends are
really going out on a limb, bringing me here.
Then, Dave turns to me and says, simply, “Brian will be your caddie.”
Sweet Jesus! A caddie!
I’ve never had a caddie before. Aren’t they all these young guys who are great players and who kind of hold in their guffaws
and then make fun of you later back in the caddie shack? Yes. There’s a course in North Carolina that uses llamas as caddies,
probably because they can’t talk.
I don’t need a caddie. I don’t deserve a caddie. Like Slobodan Milosevic, I don’t want any observers around as witnesses to
my atrocities. In this case, misery does not love company.
But guess what? During prime time on the course, you
must
have a caddie—as a service to you, the golfer, yes, but also to keep your sorry butt moving. Even if you rent a cart, if
there are caddies available, you have to use them. In fact, “no golfer playing before 3:00
P.M
. is permitted to carry his/her golf bag.” Could I play with one club, no bag?
I’m getting nervous. I look on the information board, which tells me that the weather is threatening and the grass is .468
inches high.
.468! These golfers are so good they need to know the grass length to the thousandth of an inch? Ay-yi-yi! Well, I say by
now it’s .471 at least. More pertinent to me, the rough is three inches.
Brian is two-bagging it for Val and me. Diane and Rick are in a cart. We head for the first tee.
Maybe I can beat the women. Diane and Val are not supercompetitive types, and they each have a sense of humor about all this.
Diane says one time when she and her sister played here she laughed so hard she wet her pants, had to wrap a jacket around
herself, and drive home to change.