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!