Golf And These Desperate Times

The logic seemed sound; I would surprise my wife with new golf clubs and lessons. It would be a great Christmas gift that she would use to gain an appreciation for the beauty and difficulty of the great game. Ultimately, that appreciation would translate into playing only when we were on vacation and in the meantime she would return to shoe shopping with a carefully crafted understanding of why I’m playing golf instead of retiling the bathroom. Perhaps I didn’t think it through.

And, the look on her face on Christmas morning quickly confirmed that fact. In her defense, I should say that she is not a violent woman, but had she been, I could visualize her beating me to death with a brand-new Ping five-iron that fateful Christmas morning. Obviously, her grip would have been a little strong because she had not taken her lesson as yet, but I would have been just as dead.

Perhaps the situation was exacerbated by the sheer size of the package and the stupid smile on my face; but trust me, after a woman wrestles a giant package to the ground looking for who knows what and finds you know what, she is not very happy. In all likelihood, the situation was made worse because I had just opened her package to me containing a $2,000 Giorgio Armani jacket that I had coveted for months. Don’t get me wrong, I love golf, but Armani defiantly trumps Ping.

So, where is the lesson here? Is it to never buy your wife golf clubs and lesson for Christmas, or is there a bigger more profound message to be learned? The answer is “yes” to both questions, but there is also a tactical question at hand. Remember the circumstance; there I was on Christmas morning; I had just snap-hooked my drive into the deep woods. The easy thing to do would be to pitch it back into the fairway, take my punishment and move on, but I didn’t get to where I am by laying up, so I took dead aim through the trees and let it fly. Then, as the tears welled-up in her eyes, I boldly announced that her first golf lesson would be in Cabo San Lucas.

It was like watching a great golf shot as her arms went around my neck. I saw the ball emerge from the hazard, land softly on the green and roll to within two-feet of the hole for an easy birdie. Granted, I could have gone for an emotional eagle but that would have likely cost me a trip to Europe.

Okay, I hear you. It was a bad premise to begin with because I really don’t want to play golf with my wife or any other woman for that matter. It is not because it is a sacred game as much as it is because golf resides in a sacred place called “guy-time,” that most sacred of all places where we scratch, spit and cuss at will. It is that place where your best friend's nickname describes at least one of his inadequacies. It is that holiest of places where you don’t care if your shirt is wrinkled or has a Gatorade stain down the front, or, you have terminal hat-hair; those things have zero importance in Guy-time.

In a world filled with equal rights, women executives, and unisex barbershops, guy-time is in danger. Once safe bastions of manhood such as golf, football and fishing are under attack and in grave danger of being neutered. The enemy of guy-time is women with their never ending list of domestic chores and “us-time.” Mow the grass, fix the sink, and turn on the TV and watch “Dancing With The Stars” with me; is there no end to this assault?

Reading the latest golf stats, perhaps it is too late for you and me. The number of people playing golf is not growing. The simple answer is to make sure that you teach your son the great game of golf, and if that fails invite a NASCAR guy to play.

These are desperate times.