By Bonnie Brown

Columnist

My husband Tom loves golf.  He has played since he was a youngster.  When he retired several years ago, I figured the only way I’d get to see him was to play golf with him.  So, I decided to learn to play.  He and our son Jeff invited me along for their round of golf.

I will admit that I love being outdoors and all the beauty of the Ole Miss Golf Course.  It’s just a lovely setting.  The day was pleasant—not too warm and there was a very slight breeze.  A perfect setting for a round of golf.

I listened intently to the advice given me by my husband and my son.  There’s lots to think about before you take a swing at the golf ball!  The way you stand, the way you address the ball and most importantly the way you smack/hit the ball.  

Let’s just say that my early attempts were not the intended results I had hoped for.  First, I missed the ball altogether with my powerful swing!  Not pretty and it certainly garnered a few chuckles and more advice from my teammates.  My next few swings at least connected with the ball, but it did not go very far, and it stayed on the ground.  More swings and my golf game had become a wide-open game of croquet!  My son told me that I needed to stop hitting the “worm burners.”  As if I had any control between my club and golf ball.  

When I finally managed to get some loft on my shots, I began to get a terrible ache in my wrists and my shoulders were downright angry for all my golfing efforts.  Who knew that golfing could be such a physically painful sport?  I did not.  Swinging the club sounded so easy until you did just that.  Ouch!  Especially the time or two that my club hit the ground and not the ball. 

I don’t know who made up the rules that a golf game should consist of 18 holes when each of those holes demanded so many ball strikes.  And with each hole, my teammates became more opinionated about my lack of golfing experience. They finally realized that their commentary was not receiving very favorable responses except for dirty looks and lots of muttering on my part.  

The many holes and all my efforts still had not convinced my brain to loft the ball rather than play the croquet version.  Each ball strike was questionable since my club seemed to have no sense of direction.  Why was it necessary to track down the errant balls anyway?  Doesn’t the golf course have a machine to do that after everyone goes home?  And if not, why not?

At the end of the endless afternoon, I was sunburned, in a foul mood and totally disillusioned about the game of golf.  I must say that my teammates were quite relieved when we finally wrapped it up and staggered back to the clubhouse.  Well, mine was more of a stagger—theirs more of a sprint.  

I hated to disappoint my husband and tell him that I would not be joining him on the course and that he would have to play on without me.  Did I detect a sense of relief on his part?  Yes, definitely!   And I readily admit that not playing golf was a huge relief.   Did I change my mind after the soreness finally left my body.  Absolutely not!  Winston Churchill got it right when he said that “Golf is a game whose aim is to hit a very small ball into an even smaller hole, with weapons singularly ill-designed for the purpose.”