Golf and G.O.L.F. are not the same.  Golf is fun.  It’s a sport that can be played alone, with others or as a team.  Age is not an impediment.  Young, middle-aged and older people can enjoy playing due to the handicapping system that makes scoring equitable for all.  Golf is relaxing, therapeutic and it offers a four-hour time span within which to socialize with friends.  Playing golf is good for the mind, body and soul.  Golfers are outside, breathing fresh air, walking and communing with Nature.  Deer, squirrels and coyotes often share the fairways with the players.  In other parts of the world, animals such as kangaroos, alligators, flamingos and even other more exotic wildlife roam the courses providing opportunities for very memorable photographs.  The game of golf is SO pastoral.  It’s no wonder, then, that golf has become such a popular pass time.

Something uncanny happens, though, during G.O.L.F.  Competition.  It could be a team match, a two best balls of the foursome game, a tournament for charity where people who never or seldom play golf come out to support the cause, or the illustrious two-day member-guest events among the country club circuit.  All of the friendliness, good will, camaraderie and we’re-out-here-to-enjoy-each-other-and-have-fun attitude undergoes a seismic shift into something perverse.  Hobby golfers instantly become ranked PGA professionals.  They are committed to winning as if they are vying for the tournament trophy at Augusta National Golf Course.  This phenomenon occurs at registration for the event.  An invisible inner switch flips on in the players’ brains and activates their latent competitive gene.  This transformation is so serious that, after all the probes and investigations into the origins of Covid-19 have been exhausted, the World Health Organization, the National Institute of Health and the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services should launch a full-blown comprehensive deep-dive investigation into the gain of function research and ultimate lab leak surrounding this gene.  It is among us and it seems to be proliferating at lightyear speed.  It needs to be identified, treated and controlled.

“Mark your ball,” snaps the otherwise easy-going player, “that’s NOT a gimme!”  

“You’re kidding, right?” I ask, “the ball is only one foot away from the hole!  It’s literally a tap-in!” 

“Nope.  Mark your ball.  You could three-putt from there!  This is a competition, you know, and I’m only protecting the field!”  

For Pete’s sake!  When did Little Miss Mellow swallow the rule book and become a tournament official?  

For as many golf events there are, believe that there are just as many, if not more incidents of personalities gone wild.  Little things that go undetected on a Tuesday become ultimate causes de celebres the following day during a tournament. 

“Would you move w-a-y to the right?” motions a player, waving her hand at her opponent, scooting her with her gesture to relocate,  “you’re in my vision.”  

That’s funny . . . I played with you just yesterday and you never once asked me to step away.  

“Ugh!” she growled, “did you see that?  I missed the putt!  You were still in my range of vision!  That’s why I pushed the ball!” 

No, I was nowhere NEAR your ‘range of vision!’ You missed the putt because you MISSED THE PUTT!  

One of the assistant pros from the golf shop approaches in his golf cart.  

“Ladies,” he begins, “you’re gonna have to pick up your pace of play.  You’re a hole and a half behind.  Think you can be back on track by the end of the next hole?  Good.  Let’s do it!”  And he drives away never waiting for our response. 

“You shouldn’t take so many practice swings,” admonishes my opponent who, herself, swings the golf club no fewer than seven times before she addresses her ball.  In fact, she is notoriously the slowest player in the women’s group, bar none!  If anyone needs to pick up the pace, it is definitely SHE!  It should be no surprise that Vegas odds favor a sloth against this girl, any day, any time!  Check your Fanduel app for betting options!  You’ll be shopping for a yacht in no time . . . No time at all!

Team play triggers the competitive gene.  Those players possessing the gene arrive at the golf course looking neat and crisp in their sharp uniforms but beneath it all they are golf machines, transformed and programmed to win . . . whatever it takes.

“I scored a 5 on that hole,” says Player 1 from Team A with a hint of arrogance, “so that’s a 5 for 4 with my pop.  We take that hole, net.” 

“Um . . . Are you SURE about that 5?” questions Player 1 from Team B, “I count you at a 6 . . . A 6 for 5 . . . So we split the hole, net.”

Team A, Player 1 stops mid-step, turns back toward the fairway and proceeds to visibly recount her progress, pointing her finger to each place she took a stroke.  

“Nope, I’m a 5,” she affirms confidently.

”Hmmmm . . . . ,” says Team B, Player 1, dripping with sarcasm while she recounts the strokes, “You hit your drive THERE, articulating her arm and index finger with exaggerated grandiosity; your second shot landed there; your third shot . . . Oh, right!  Oops! You chunked your third shot; your fourth shot made it to the green and you two-putt . . . That’s 6!” 

“Oh! Right.  The chunked shot,” recalled the player.

“Forget to count that one, kindasortamaybehuh?” Team B, Player 1 rebuked.  “So . . . You scored a 6 for 5 and we split the hole . . . Just as I thought!” 

Better keep an eye on THAT one!  She’s sneaky, she is! 

Partner tournaments are armed minefields in disguise.  Players pair up months prior to the date of the event.  They purchase matching outfits (sometimes two, if the tournament spans two days) and they arrive with a full set of tools . . . Their golf clubs, more than enough golf balls, of course, but more importantly, their mental game.  Claws have been sharpened, handicaps have been managed and the gloves of sportsmanship have been left behind in the car . . . hidden in the trunk . . . beneath the spare tire! 

Music blasts through the loudspeakers all around the practice area during the players’ warm-up period.  Golfers greet each other like long-lost friends, hugging, laughing and placing individual side bets on teams most likely to win.  It’s all fun on the surface.  However, do NOT be fooled by all that feminine frivolity! The warrior game face luridly lurks behind every fake smile, every empty good luck wish and every false word of encouragement.  Finally the players take their places in their golf carts.  The head golf professional announces local rules and other points of note and the competition officially opens.  

“Hi, my name’s Susan and I’m playing a TaylorMade 2.”  

Susan tees up her ball, takes her practice swing, lowers her sunglasses onto her eyes (activating the competitive gene into attack mode), and strikes her ball with herculean force.  The TaylorMade 2 soars in perfect trajectory out to the middle of the fairway and comes to rest in perfect position . . . Position A+.  

“I’m Karen.  I’ve got a Titleist ProV1.” 

Karen’s sunglass gene activation is set, she sets her ball on the tee, takes her practice swing, hits the ball and . . . all four players’ sets of eyes follow the errant ball to the right . . . to the further right  . . . to even further right until it stops questionably close to the out of bounds stakes. 

“We’ll have to check on that ball,” announces Terri, Susan’s partner.

After the other two players’ balls enter the fairway, both carts race to the location of Karen’s ball. 

Terri jumps out of her cart and unzips a pocket on her golf bag, retrieving a ball of string. 

“Here, Susan,” she says, handing the loose end of the string to her partner, “I keep this in my bag for just this kind of situation. We’ll run the string from one OB stake to the other.  That way we can determine with certainty if Karen’s ball is out of bounds!”  

“Oh no you don’t!” scolds Karen with reproach, “It’s MY ball, MY call!  Put that string away!  Golf is a game of honor and YOU don’t get to determine if my ball is still in play or NOT!  So, step away and let ME address MY situation!”  

. . . and the tension just continues to mount as play continues. 

“Ugh,” complains another foursome of women who have been delayed on every hole by the slow pace of play in the group ahead of them. 

”This is riDICulous,” they whine, “we have been waiting on every.single.HOLE!  Where’s the marshall when you need one?  Somebody should be out here moving things along!”

”Just flash ‘em your bitch wings,” says another, demonstrating the motion . . . Hands on hips, elbows bent, one foot planted approximately twelve inches in front of the other.  “They should KNOW they’re slow and PICK UP THE PACE!” 

“I know how to make them play faster!  Just hit the ball into them!  That’ll send a message!”  

But that brilliant idea never works!  The ball is hit, it bounces on the grass, veers a little to the right and . . . hits the slow women’s golf cart.  They immediately speed back toward the impatient players in a display of full-blown hysteria and tears . . . an Oscar winning temper tantrum.

”Do you know what you just did?  DO YOU KNOW what you just DID?  You almost KILLED us!  You have been stressing us out all day long and now you hit our golf cart and broke a piece off AND you almost hit one of us in the head and KILLED US!” 

The woman with the bitch wings hands her a tissue but the tears keep coming. 

“I mean it, you guys!” cries the sobbing new player,  “None of us in this group has been playing golf that long and we were looking for a lost ball!  It was the fourth ball we’ve lost so far and now you guys are CONSTANTLY breathing down our necks and making us feel uncomfortable!  AND . . . We’re trying to figure out why there are so many dots in the little spaces on our scorecards!  You should REALLY be more patient!”  

The veteran players’ attempt to diffuse the brouhaha fails tremendously, but the tournament continues . . . now with four teams rattled and agitated.  

Somewhere further along on the Back Nine, two teams that were paired together get along famously.  Too famously, as it appears.  Birdie juice, a shot of Fireball Cinnamon Whiskey, is awarded to a player who scores one under par on any given hole.  It’s tradition.  THIS grouping, however, bent tradition and awarded themselves a shot of birdie juice after every swing!  They are all drunk.  Inebriated.  Hammered. Blotto.

“Uh oh,” slurs one of the girls, “I see three balls in front of me!  Which one should I hit?”

”The one in the middle!” advises her partner.  

And gut-belly laughing, snorting and cheering erupt from both carts. 

“Wait a sec,” cautions one of them, “we’re in a tournament!” 

More uncontrolled laughter.

”We better be serious!” 

Continued laughter. 

“O.K.,” she says, running the palm of her hand across her face, “this is me getting serious!” 

Laughter, laughter and more laughter.  

At least ONE foursome was enjoying the day . . . Until they have to submit their scorecards!  

Four hours and twenty-five minutes later, all cards have been signed, attested and submitted to the Head Pro.  The players convene on the patio to await the results and huddle into groups to debrief the day’s play. 

“Oh my gosh!” says someone, “you wouldn’t beLIEVE what we had to tolerate today!  The women we played with were HORRID!” 

“She improved her lie!” commented another, “she freakin’ improved her LIE!  That’s against the rules!” 

“That’s NOTHING,” added another, “I saw someone mark her ball on the green then replace her ball at least 5 inches closer to the hole!”  

“The rough was AWFUL!  I can’t believe it was allowed to get that long!”  

 . . . And the complaints continue until the winners are announced.  

 . . . And then the complaints being about how the winners aren’t truly winners at all  . . . They’re “sandbaggers,” scoundrels and cheaters! 

So . . . While the game of golf, in its empirical form is indeed wonderful, therapeutic, relaxing and pastoral, in its competitive form, it dissolves into something a little more challenging.  I believe that an appropriate acronym for competitive golf could be: G.O.L.F.: Game On!  Let’s Fight!

It’s happened.  Just like Alice chased the White Rabbit down that whimsical rabbit hole in Lewis Carroll’s acclaimed story, I have done the same thing . . . not by choice, you see, but by circumstance.  If you’ve ever experienced a rabbit hole yourself, you know how mind-boggling, emotionally confounding and categorically life-changing they can be.  I haven’t actually experienced REAL Mad Hatters, Queens of Hearts or Chesire cats, but the cast of characters in my life equal Alice’s measure for measure.  

Now that I think of it, maybe I’ve been living ‘down the rabbit hole’ my whole life!  I didn’t drop down one as Alice did.  I’ve been here!  What I’ve always considered normal and usual has been anything but that!  Many of my parochial school teachers would have frightened the crown off the tyrannical Queen of Hearts.  “You forGOT your homework, child?  OFF WITH YOUR HEAD!”  I have been employed by many Mad Hatters, lost in their own confusion and barking nonsensical orders, expecting rational results.  Tweedledee, Tweedledum and the White Rabbit have also been colorfully represented in my life and I’ve loved them all, but it wasn’t until just the other day that I realized I could really use Alice’s hookah-smoking caterpillar to help me out.  

I stand at 5 feet, 6 inches . . . Not too tall, not too short.  Clothes fit me without having to alter the length or width.  Doctors have never been concerned with the rate of my growth nor the number on the scale.  My statistics fall within the normal range for a modern-day Caucasian woman.  Why then do many of my friends and acquaintances remark about my exceptional height?  It hit me hard when the inbox on my tablet announced a new message . . . a group photo of me standing with three friends.  I gasped.  “They’re right!  I AM tall!  I’m towering over them like one of the Goons in the Popeye cartoons!”  A second look at the picture confirmed my first impression.  I am indeed too tall!  

Mirrors in my house lie to me daily.  My reflection depicts a well-proportioned image.  Could it be that my mirrors are really circus mirrors . . . diminishing my stature by a foot or two?  That must be the case . . . The picture of me with my friends does not match what my mirror shows.  It sure is scary down here at the bottom of the rabbit hole!

If only I could bring real life to the lyrics of Jefferson Airplane’s White Rabbit, I would be home free:  “ . . . Go ask Alice when she’s ten-feet tall.  Tell ‘em a hookah-smokin’ caterpillar has given you the call!”  

Well, I’m calling!!!!  HEY CATERPILLAR!!!!  

Jeff Foxworthy has it all wrong!  Why does he ask people if they are smarter than a sixth grader? Of course I’m smarter than a sixth grader! I was valedictorian of my high school graduating class, I matriculated from UCLA and I earned a masters degree.  There is no doubt that I am smarter than a sixth grader.  The real question, however, should be ‘Am I smarter than my TV?’ 

Berta comes to us weekly on Thursdays.  She scrubs, cleans, vacuums and polishes every surface in our house until they sparkle.  Not one dust mite escapes the numerous attacks of Endust, Pledge, Clorox, Pine-Sol or Comet. Mold, mildew and musty messes don’t stand a chance against Berta and her well-armed soldiers camouflaged as ordinary household cleaning supplies.  Every desktop item is routinely removed to accommodate the swift and thorough swiping of a dust rag.  Area rugs are rolled tightly to allow the vacuum to seek and destroy any stray pet hair or dust bunny that hides beneath their cover.  Books neatly standing on shelves are grazed by the rapid sweep of a dust-seeking Swiffer.  And, without warning, electronic boxes that communicate with the TV in the family room or printer in my office, become collateral damage as the same Swiffer wand brushes up, under, behind and over them unwittingly dislocating their connective cables. 

“Berta must have dislodged the cables again,” said my husband as he clicked on the TV remote, “the TV’s not working.”  In his attempt to set things right, he only made things worse.  He unplugged all the cables and inserted them back into the slots . . . The WRONG slots.  We had sound, all right, but even when the TV was turned off, the sound wasn’t! It was a disaster!

“O.K.,” I said, “what have you done?  We get network TV channels but AppleTV, Paramount+, Netflix and Amazon don’t work!  And what about the sound?  It won’t turn off!”  

Because the disaster occurred late in the week, a technician was unable to service our S.O.S. until early the following week on Monday.  Our entire weekend of television was limited to network offerings in which we had no interest.  

Monday morning couldn’t arrive fast enough.  As long as a technician was coming, I compiled a list of other problems I was having with electronic devices, namely a second Smart TV upstairs and the SmartTank printer connected . . . Or NOT . . . to my Apple computer . . . Sort of a three-birds-one-stone kind of thing.  While he was here on the housecall, he was my hostage!  (The irony is not lost on me that all of this equipment is called “Smart” something: Smart TV, SmartTank printer.  I fail to fully appreciate their intelligence).

Gus solved the problem in the family room within five minutes.  

“What did you do?”  I asked.

”Oh,” he said nonchalantly, “I just plugged everything back into the right spots.  Was there something else you’d like me to check?” 

I led Gus and his assistant, Roy, into my office and explained the issue I had with the SmartTank printer.  

“I shouldn’t have to unplug it and plug it back in every time I want to print something,” I explained.  “It takes itself off line and doesn’t know how to put itself back ON line!  So much for it being smart!”  

Gus unplugged the printer, then plugged it back in. (“Been there, done that, Buddy!” I thought to myself, “but go ahead . . . Give it your best shot!”)  

When that didn’t work, Gus accessed the Menu within the Systems Setting area and worked a little magic.  All the while, I watched and wondered if the average consumer should know how to do what he was doing, so I asked. 

“No, ma’am,” he said, relieving me of some of my feelings of foolishness, “I have access to codes.” 

Codes, I wondered.  CODES?  What ARE such codes and why don’t I have them?  Why aren’t they listed in the owner’s manual (that is now only accessible online on a SmartComputer after scanning a QR icon somewhere).  

Minutes later, SmartTank spit out a printed summary of Gus’s reprogramming and resetting.

”See here?” Gus said, pointing to a section of the readout, “THIS is where the trouble was!  I just input a reset code and she looks good now.  You shouldn’t have any more trouble!” 

That’s what YOU think, I thought to myself.  The minute you leave and I try to print something, SmartTank will jump off line again and because I don’t have ‘codes,’ I’ll be dead in the water!  Who knew that it was necessary to learn a whole new language to interact with Smart electronics? 

Onto the upstairs SmartTV.  

“O.K., Gus,” I started, trying to disguise as much sarcasm as I could, “here’s your real challenge for the day!  Can you tell me WHY I need THREE different remote controls to operate this television?”  I was certain that this TV would baffle him, so I sat and watched him work.  Gus pressed buttons on one remote, then the second one (to get the sound), then the third one (to set the sleep timer).  He accessed Samsung on his phone to get some ‘codes,” but nothing worked.  Poor Roy was sent out to the truck to retrieve different HDMI and other various cables, but even those proved unsuccessful.  Finally Dr. Gus conveyed his diagnosis. 

“We don’t usually like to suggest this to our clients,” he began, “but you have legacy equipment with your sound bar and your cable box.  Neither of them talk to the SmartTV, so . . . you can either continue to with the system you have or you can upgrade to a more current setup!  And, I don’t know if you’re bundled or not, so . . . That’s something to be concerned with too!”  

Bundled?  It’s the middle of summer!  I am NOT bundled!!  All of my coats and jackets are in the closet.  It dawned on me that Gus’s meaning of bundled and mine weren’t the same but I was reticent to comment.  And what’s WITH these SmartTVs?  How do they decide to whom or to what they’ll talk to?  And LEGACY equipment?  It’s not that old!!  If our equipment is legacy, what does that make me . . . fossilized?

“Let me tell my husband everything we’ve discussed and he can decide whether or not we should upgrade!” 

When in doubt, shoot from the hip!  There is no way I am prepared to admit to Gus or to anyone else that I am NOT smarter than my TV!

The Stretch.  Everyone knows about it . . . or them, I should say.  There’s the 7th Inning Stretch in baseball, a two to five-minute length of time to stand up, sing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” and to purchase a hot dog and another beer.  There’s the stretch of road between two points, usually heard about when asking for directions.  “Yep . . . Take this here road for a stretch then turn right at the old, abandoned barn . . . .”  And again, there’s the final “comin’ down the home stretch” in horse races when jockeys frantically strike the necks of their mounts with riding crops, urging them to surge down the last few meters in hopes of winning by a nose.  But there’s another Stretch . . . the Stretch of Time, spanning years, decades really, but seeming like only days.  This Stretch doesn’t yet have a name but it certainly does have a heart . . . A BIG one.   

“Were your ears ringing last night,” were Inga’s first words when I answered her call early one recent Sunday morning. 

“No, but I’m guessing they probably should have been,” I answered tentatively.  “Why? What have I done now?” 

Inga explained. “Were you friends with a girl in high school named Sofia?  And her brother, Matteo?”

”Yep.  Why?” I asked, “what’s so important about THEM? And how do YOU know them?”  

“Because Sofia is my neighbor and I just spent the weekend with her and her brother at the beach!  I have been telling them about you for a long time and we finally made the connection that they knew you in high school!”  

I briefly wondered what sorts of things Inga had been telling them “for a long time,” but I cast all that aside for the time being (to be revisited later).  I was more excited about reconnecting with friends from my distant past. Those high school years were the sweetest, most memorable and happiest of times. 

Inga created a group text and sent it to the three of us so we would have each other’s contact information.  We were free to chat through our keyboards or to arrange plans to meet in person.  Sofia confirmed a lunch date for 12:00 noon, one week away.  

That Monday finally arrived.  Being an early riser, I performed my usual morning routine enjoying coffee, reading news apps, looking at and selectively responding to emails and texting back-and-forth with one of my very close friends.  A sudden wave of nerves unleashed through my body like a mighty, powerful tsunami!  I was nervous about meeting Sofia!  Why, I don’t know, but I was.  

“I’m having lunch with Sofia today,” my fingers clicked a text to Inga, never expecting an immediate reply.  After all, the grandfather clock had just struck five.  I am the only one I know (besides my morning coffee friend) who is awake at such an early hour.  

“I know!” popped up onto my screen.  

“YOU KNOW?”  I asked, “How do you know?  I don’t know what to wear!  I’m so nervous!” 

“She hasn’t seen you in forever!” began Inga, “ANYTHING you wear will be a new outfit to her!” 

“True . . . but whatever I wear has to be perfect!  What if I have a bad-hair-big-butt day . . . BOTH are entirely possible!  Maybe I should make myself throw up!!!  I’ll lose five pounds!  AND I have wrinkles!  There’s nothing I can do about them!  Maybe I should slather a snail slime mask onto my face, but no!  I can’t do that!  It’s too disgusting!  I think I should do a two-hour pilates class with heavy weights.  That will still leave me with enough time to run out and buy something new and fabulous to wear . . . for Sofia and Ghost Matteo!”

“Or you could just find a quiet spot to meditate,” Inga suggested.

”MEDitate?” I scoffed, “MEDITATE?  No way!  Get outta here! Meditating stresses me out.  Besides, I have too many things to think about besides taking deep cleansing breaths and focusing my mind on  . . . nothing!  Don’t be ridiculous!” 

My iPad slammed shut, I changed into yoga pants and sports bra and performed my pilates class . . . with weights, all the while thinking about different combinations of outfits I could wear.  Why, I wondered, can’t we wear uniforms like we did in high school?  That would make this whole ordeal so much easier!

One shower and four wardrobe changes later, I walked out the door ready to face my teenage past.  I arrived at The City Club, a private women’s social establishment, a half an hour early!  I wanted to make sure I was there to greet Sofia.  I perched myself on a chair just inside the front door so there was no way I would miss her arrival.  As other women arrived, they glanced at me sideways wondering why I was seated so close to the front door. 

“I’m the door monitor today,” I offered as another group of ladies gave me their once-over assessment of disapproval.  “Actually,” I continued, “I’m meeting a friend I knew in high school and it’s been over fifty years since we’ve seen each other!  I’m so excited and I want to make sure I don’t miss her when she comes through the door!”  

Their snooty scowls instantly flipped upside down into gentle smiles. “Oh, how lovely!” they said, “have a wonderful time!” 

I checked my watch . . . 12:02 p.m.  . . . And I panicked!  “She’s LATE!” hammered my fingers in a text to Inga.  “She’s not coming!  She’s stood me up!” 

“Send me a picture when you’re seated,” replied Inga.  

After what seemed like years (or the same number of decades since we’d seen each other), the front door slowly opened revealing the most welcomed sight I’d seen in a long, long time! SOFIA!

Of course I recognized her!  No words, just wide, ear-to-ear smiles on both of our faces.  We bobbed in a warm embrace (and a few tears of happiness) until the hostess interrupted us offering to lead us to our table.  

The long-dried riverbed between us filled with fresh Spring rain.  Conversation cascaded so quickly and plentifully that almost three hours passed in what seemed like a matter of minutes.  In my mind’s eye, we were back in high school discussing our lives . . . the highs, the lows, the gains, the losses and the yet-to-be-seen.  We would have gone on for another three hours but for the subtle whispers and “ahems” from the waiters trying to tell us that the dining room was closing!  

“Oh my gosh, Sofia!”  I said, “we’re the last ones standing!  Everyone’s gone!  I really don’t want to leave but we’d better before we’re asked!” 

There is much more to come, I’m sure.  The elastic band of friendship that bound us together over fifty years ago has stretched far enough.  This nameless Stretch of Time may have distanced us but our hearts have always  . . . And will always be close.