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 — ask my nephew about the time he showed up to play in cargo shorts and Moker took him out to buy a whole new outfit. Alcohol is often involved, even during play, and the golfers themselves aren’t what you would call, well, ripped, unless it’s because of the adult beverages they consume at the 19th Hole.

In golf’s defense, that changed a tad when Tiger Woods entered the fray in the 1990s. He works out, and “muscle” could be his middle name. I’ve seen a bit golf on the tube recently, and it looks like those who’ve followed in Tiger’s footsteps on the pro tour prescribe to staying fit.

But give me a break. The pros are not what golf is all about. I’m much more familiar with the weekend duffers — there are thousands in every suburban hamlet of this great country of ours, and I can tell you that a lot of them wear their pants high, with their belts cinched just below their man boobs. No, not my man, but most of his friends.

I first met golf in my North Dallas neighborhood in the ’70s.

His name was Bobby, and he was the captain of the golf team. He lived across the street from us, and wore collared shirts, even when he wasn’t teeing it up. And his mom had an ancient chihuahua who couldn’t do the lap around the neighborhood — so Bobby took him along, resting on a sweet Laura Ashley-type pillow. The two had some kind of signal. When Chi Chi needed to relieve himself, he let his caretaker know. Bobby would then let the critter down gently — on someone else’s lawn, of course — until the deed was done.

Now, I could have characterized this as a young man helping his mama out. A teenage boy with responsibilities — captain of the golf team! — who took time from his busy day to exhibit empathy and love. But no, I was the scruffy high school girl who thought wearing my curly locks in the fashion of Janis Joplin — or perhaps Jim Morrison?!? — was cool, and never met a T-shirt that didn’t sport a rock band’s name.

And then came college. I endeavored to continue the faux-hippy chick vibe, but it didn’t last long. I met a golfer — and by golly, I fell in love, if not with match play, then with the idea of making a match with this dude with short sideburns (in the Eric Clapton era — I still can’t believe it!) who fancied flamingo-colored collared shirts.

Neither one of us has changed much, although I stopped wearing Ts with the names of my guitar idols screened on the front. But our relationship has always been framed by his love of chasing a little white ball around a ginormous expanse of green and my refusing to understand any of it.

The club in suburban D.C. that, to this day, refuses to accept women as members and won’t even let them play on their hallowed links? He played there a couple of times and guess what? He doesn’t play there anymore.

The raised voices when I accepted his invitation to attend a pro tourney and then showed up in a nice blouse (but no collar!) and modest — hemmed, I might add, no Daisy Dukes! — shorts. We negotiated my appearance, and I scrounged up a tasteful sleeveless blouse, which had a dang collar. So no blood was spilled, even though I thought he looked ridiculous in his madras shorts and pink, collared shirt.

The time he and his buddies thought it would be great to play a course out of town, and got up especially early to make sure they were there on time to tee off. Of course, none of these doofuses had checked a map (no Google back in the ’80s); they left our house at 4:30 a.m. and arrived at their destination at 6:30. They had a 10 a.m. tee time, and the course wasn’t even open when they got there. Did I laugh? Yup — a ton, and then some.

Another time when he and his friends thought it would be a great idea to take the non-golf-playing wives along during “leaf-peeping” season. We gals drove the carts and giggled and snorted when my guy got nonsensically angry at an errant shot and threw his club at a tree. Of course, Moker’s club got stuck up in said tree. He and his buds spent a good hour trying to get the club down from a spectacular burnt umber maple — throwing rocks and even a couple of their own golf clubs. And guess what? After all that effort, they had three clubs stuck in the tree.

What about the six (or is it eight?) autographed “fan” photos of famous golfers that Moker sent away for when he was a kid — to Sam Snead, Jack Nicklaus, Ben Hogan and a few more — that he framed a few years ago and hung above the desk in his basement office? The girls call those specimens “Daddy’s fat, ugly white men”. We’ll just leave it at that.

We don’t get in too many tangles anymore over his love affair with golf. Over the years, I’ve gone from missing him while he was out driving and putting — who would want to spend up to six hours on a Saturday doing that? — to welcoming his five-day-a-week golfing habit. I find myself actually disappointed sometimes when it rains or he cancels a round because errands summon him. My change of heart isn’t so much because the love has faded in our relationship. It’s more that I understand how much he still enjoys “playing” the sport he loves. Yeah. Right.

We still occasionally tangle over his avocation turned preoccupation. We’re away for a long weekend. Our trip has conveniently coincided with the annual Augusta National Invitation Tournament — aka, the Masters. The club that hosts the tourney is well-known for its entrenchment in racism and sexism. But even Augusta National is trying to change. I pointed that out to Moker the other day.

Of course, I couched my compliment in a criticism involving the history of the club and the tournament it hosts.

Moker called foul. “Hey, Condoleezza Rice is a member at Augusta.”

“Yeah, but she’s also is responsible for 9–11,” I countered. “What’s your point?”

Well, that didn’t go well. The point, I guess, is that the Masters is on the boob tube this weekend. And from what little I’ve seen, pro golfers dress better now than they did 40 years ago.

I reckon we can thank Tiger Woods for that. He’s responsible for breaking fashion barriers, too.