Golf With My Sister … Oh The Humanity!
A photo of the Bogeyman with his sisters, Mary (middle ) and Marge (right), from back when we still posed for pictures.
The weather in St. Louis has been spectacular lately. You would think it would be difficult to rain on that parade, wouldn’t you?
But as these things relate to golf, the old Bogeyman has a way of turning lemonade into, not just lemons, but into hand grenades. Let’s just say it’s a gift.
Case in point was a recent glorious morning, splashed with dew, soaked with sunshine and crackling with promise. It was the kind of morning that becomes a screensaver. And for yours truly, it was the beginning of a disastrous day.
For on this particular day, long before he knew it would be postcard perfect,
Ol’ Bogey agreed to an apocalyptic arrangement. That is, he made a tee time to play golf with - gulp! - his sister.
The thought of it seemed inconceivable, repugnant on many levels. To explain, the Bogeyman grew up with two sisters and seven brothers. Sports and outdoor activities were a big part of childhood, ingrained in the family dynamic.
Games were almost always on, be it Wiffleball, touch football, street hockey, or bottle-rocket tag. And, if memory serves, there were times when the youngest sister, Margaret, joined in.
They were desperate times, to be sure, still, where Marge was concerned, the athletic gene was not entirely indiscernible. There was a hint of hand-eye coordination, a bit of competitive fire and always plenty of enthusiasm.
On the other hand, older sister Mary simply didn’t do athletics. The cranium cabinet contains no “Sports” files under her name - no memories of it whatsoever. No doubt, some jump rope is in there somewhere, a bike ride now and then, maybe a flash of field hockey.
But like many Bogey Women out there, Mary was raised in more conventional times. Biological boys playing women’s sports was not a national issue in those days, in part because biological girls weren’t playing women’s sports, not in big numbers anyway.
Most women were indifferent about athletics, like they were about “shop class” or metalworking. Things have changed.
Now, make no mistake, friends will tell you Mary has loads of personality. She is generous, caring, engaging. But where sports are concerned, she’s a stranger in a strange land. If Bernard Malamud had written his first novel about my sister’s athleticism, it might have been called The Unnatural, if not, The Awkward or The Disoriented. That said, it should be pointed out that she did secure a state title when she was in high school - it’s called a Missouri Driver’s License.
The history notwithstanding, funny things are going on in golf these days. People rediscovered the game of golf and the great outdoors during all of that Covid craziness. Golf was one of the few unmasked, unrestricted things you could do.
People who have no business on a golf course, who establish them-
selves as tourists in nearly every other athletic endeavor, embraced swatting the ivory sphere. Worse, between working from home or quitting work altogether, they have time for the pursuit.
For many years, Mary worked for a locally based, occasionally-viable airline. Now, she is retired, and it became obvious that has put too much time in her hands when she called a while back and muttered the “G" word.
Stunned, momentarily confused, Ol’ Bogey responded “sure” - with a question mark on the end. So it came to pass recently, on an otherwise perfect day.
The first objective in the blind-leading-the-blindfolded exercise was to find a proper venue, I.e. one to provide a lot of room for error and, theoretically, a reasonable chance for a pleasant experience. When it became apparent runway 12L/30R at Lambert Field wasn't accepting tee times, nine holes at Forest Park became the obvious choice.
And after some initial basic instruction, the moment of truth was upon us. Authorities were notified, “shelter-in-place” orders were issued to local residents, and the Bogeys were off.
Yours truly hit first, sending a majestic slice soaring aggressively off-line and crashing into the trees. "Wow, how'd you do that,” said Mary, impressed by the sheer magnitude of the horrible shot.
"Years of pain and personal sacrifice,” answered Bogey, handing Mary a driver. "Now, it's your turn.”
The Bogey-sister put the peg in the ground and delicately placed the sacrificial pill on the pedestal; so far, so good. She took a couple of practice swings, the kind an intoxicated musk-ox might take, then nervously addressed the ball.
She pulled it back, yanked it forward and … swoosh! Air ball.
“If you miss the ball, does it count?" she asked.
The Bogeyman marveled at her ability to grasp such a subtle detail,
and he jumped on the opportunity for a teaching moment.
“Only in baseball," he replied. "We're playing golf. And today, we’re playing by USGA rules, which means - Unless the Shot Gets Airborne - it doesn't count. According to the Rules of Golf, you’re required to step back, make the sign of the cross and swing again.”
Unburdened, Mary brought the rake forward again and sent the pearly-white jawbreaker soaring skyward for nearly two seconds before it plopped to the ground, parallel to the tee box and 50 yards off to the right.
"Is that a shot?" Mary asked.
“Well, yes, but only in the strictest sense of the word," Bogey replied. “Actually, that's what we call a mulligan. According to USGA rules, a player gets one mulligan per hole, which means if you don’t like how the shot came out, you can take the shot over again.
“As the round progresses, you accrue mulligans that haven't been used. Thus, if you start out well, you're fortified with mulligans for later, when the laws of nature catch up with you."
Bogey-sister smiled. "What a great rule," she said.
"Sure," Bogey Man added. “Why do you think golf is so popular these days There's no accountability.”
As the day progressed, swings piled up and it became obvious keeping score represented cruel and unusual punishment. After all, the only thing worse than playing bad golf is accurately recording it.
Oh, there was the occasional highlight - such as the drinking fountain at No. 4. But in general, it was an emasculating exhibition. Had it been a science-based experiment, the results would have shown there is more life on Mars than a single one of Mary’s golf swings.
And yet, there was a moment, an illogical and farcical piece of preposterousness that Mary will always have to hold over the Bogeyman’s head.
Using an accrued mulligan and two of her best shots, she reached the edge of the No. 8 green, a par-3. With 5-iron in hand, she stubbed the blade on her backswing, bumbling the process enough so that when she struck the ball, it actually was on line.
After two bounces, a long roll and a violent collision with the flag, the ball dropped into the jar. Under the aforementioned USGA rules, it was a “par”.
Meanwhile, the Bogeyman sliced his tee ball, chunked his next, chipped on and two- putted for double bogey.
"Wait a minute,” Mary inquired, “I had a par?"
“Well," came the pained response, "in a manner of speaking, yes, But …
"And you … you got a 5?" she persisted.
”Well, technically, yes. But ..."
Putting three and five together, and laughing hysterically, she continued. “So, that means,I beat you on that hole, right? - I beat you. I beat you badly.”
Mark Twain famously called golf a “good walk spoiled.” But this wasn't just a walk spoiled, this was an entire day, this was a man's dignity and self-esteem.
Twain understated it.