The Golf Gypsy Roars!

I Am Woman

Murphy offered support but he couldn't hold me up either. 

Between roaring and growling I pushed myself up from my lazy chair, and off my lazy duff, threw down the yoga mat and tried to perform a plank for two minutes, while Murphy watched me from the side. When that failed, I grunted and moved to the hallway where I could use the bands to twist and imitate a golf swing, Murphy stood at my feet. Next, I walked the dog around the block muttering to myself "How could I have let this happen?" "Why did I think I couldn't work out?" "I am not an old crippled lady, I am a older woman who is angry at herself." "It's my job to stay healthy, no excuses." I felt better for it but Murphy seemed worried. 

The evil twin replied, "Yeah, but...remember how much it hurts to turn your hips; You know how you feel the next day after 90-100 swings on the golf course; why don't you go write or read another book like you did yesterday and avoid the pain?"

The evil twin has been with me since childhood. I know her well, but over the adult years I have learned to meet her head on and force her to leave. This winter, the injuries I sustained from the "dog fall" set me back. I rehabbed like a athlete, but it was winter and I still ached. Day after day I chose not to work out, or if I did it was only for a short while, not enough to get stronger. 

Snoopy is so wise...

Spring came and I entered a state tournament at Belmar Country club only to shoot a 100 on the first day. The last time I did that was in the late 90's at Prairie Dunes. I have never withdrawn from a golf tournament because of my game, even though my pride felt bruised. Instead, I sat down for dinner on the patio with golfers. Listening to the woes of other women who had shot scores way above their average, let me breathe and laugh. That evening I laughed on the way home rather than crying. 

Helen Reddy sings I AM WOMAN

The next day I played a respectable game and thought all was well enough. I sat down and told myself to accept that this cranky old body would keep me from playing a solid, consistent, and a respectable game of golf.  

My new Mantra--Accept who I am, Accept that I'm older. But something was missing.

I write words on my golf ball to remind me to stay in the moment. The words may range from sing to smile, shoulders to hips, flex and bend, relax shoulders, one shot, be present, rhythm to timing....

Bob Hope once said, "If you watch a game, it's fun. If you

play at it, it is recreation. If you work at it, it is GOLF."

When my mind wonders to the grocery store list while I am playing golf, I tell myself, "This is where I am. This is what I enjoy." This summer I have been saying, "Accept who I am, adapt to the old body." However, it felt empty. Something was missing in that mantra. 

Walking cleared my head and made Murphy feel better. He can tell when I'm out of sorts. Then I stepped out in the backyard and began swinging my 7 iron using only my left arm and left side to pull me through. Murphy thought I wanted to play, and he began to bark and bounce around me. Not safe, I told him.

He continued to bark at me. That's when I smiled and told myself to go hit golf balls. To really practice. To see if I could strengthen this older stiff body. My father's words pounded in my head, "If you don't practice you can't expect to be a better player." In my case, I wanted to be consistent and not embarrass myself. 

For the first time since last summer I hit range balls with my hybrids and woods. (Practicing my chipping and putting doesn't hurt and it reaps great rewards. Hitting the big clubs hurts my hips.)  Using dad's method of hitting 3-6 balls with my left arm following through and keeping my right arm/side from overpowering the swing, I could feel how weak I had become. I only practiced 20 minutes, but it was the best 20 minutes I could have expected. 

"I was determined to play the game well

or not at all."  Babe Didrikson Zaharis

The realized the word practice was missing in my mantra.  Can you see me smiling?

One super-duper muscle vibrator/relaxer, one squeeze ball for the hands, and the
golfer's second best friend, Voltaren. The Bio-freeze is on the
closet shelf and an extra one in my golf bag.  

New Mantra: Accept who I am. Accept that I am older and I will practice on the driving range only 20 minutes when needed.  

 I think I can. I think I can. I know I can. I will.

THURSDAY, the English Bulldog

George Haralson, 1960 

There was once a loved dog named Thursday, who spent his days at the Miami Country Club receiving hugs from the members and food from the kids at the swimming pool. His bedtime home stood south of the #7 golf hole. Consequently, Thursday big backyard became the country club.

 Our golf pro, the trickster that he was, sometimes came face to face with his own orneriness.  M-80’s, his fireworks of choice, caused much hilarity among the men and great dismay from the women.  Of course, the children were never allowed to pull such tricks, but then he did lead us like the Pied Piper down the trail of orneriness. (Jimmy Thompson, I'm sorry you are no longer here to tell us your stories, as you followed my dad around the golf course year after year, copying his behavior.) 

Victims, survivors, tellers of the tales, we all became as the summer holidays neared.  Oh, how golf swings changed when the bombs (M-80’s) exploded in their back swings.  Men could be seen pounding their clubs into the ground shortly after a well-timed explosion occurred in the distance.  The pro was never to be seen.  Even women used explicit language to show their duress at the well timed M-80 explosions set off in the middle of their backswings  by my father.  However, over drinks in the bar the stories of the errant shots and the surprise bombs heard in the distance caused many hours of laughter.  

One warm summer evening the country club’s adopted dog, Thursday, dropped by to check out the commotion and the picnic droppings.  His bulldog jaws reminded me of a jumbo hippo chomping. English bulldogs have an unusual swagger to their short legged strut.  Their massive jaws make light work of hot dogs and hamburgers.

Hot dogs and M-80’s have a similar structure, and Thursday certainly had a nose for food and trouble.  Firecrackers, snakes slithering, roman candles erupting in the air, and sparklers all lit the evening surroundings.  But it was the occasional M-80 blast that shook chips off our plates, causing mothers to scream and fathers to laugh.

It was also an M-80 that caused Thursday a great disturbance.  The evening dusk was upon us, and to announce the forth coming fireworks display to the east of the golf course, the pro threw one last  M-80 behind the crowd.  Not in our wildest dreams did anyone expect Thursday to run with such deliverance to devour the thrown hot dog.  But a hot dog it was not, the lit M-80 landed and bounced into the ready drooling jaws of Thursday.  For that instant dozens of eyes, young and old, watched as Thursday took a bite.

The explosion was muffled but sufficient enough to blow out his teeth.  Still no one could move, transfixed we were.  It was Thursday who moved first, a lumbered side-ways step.  Then a faint bellow could be heard from his belly, contrasted by high pitched screams from the women and children. I watched from the golf shop as the kerfuffle ensued.

Moms and Dads fell to Thursday’s side.  The massive bleeding jaws were promptly wrapped in golf towels and his husky body carried inside.  Ice packs arrived from the kitchen.  The blue Ford station wagon pulled up to the shop door to load the wounded dog.  Doc Smith, Johnie Stapp, and a small caravan of men pulled out.  Mother’s said their goodbyes and grumbled about the dangers of fireworks.  The children cried. 

At last, the fireworks display began. We children oohed and aahed at the brilliant lights bursting into the darkened night sky. Before we departed for the evening, a phone call in the golf shop relayed the message to all that Thursday had survived. 

Time heals many wounds, so my mother often said.  For Thursday and the kids time passed slowly.  One day he was back, snaggled toothed, sagging jaw, and one droopy eye.  His jolly swagger had returned along with his appetite, but his diet was no longer scraps.  Like an old man he learned to eat his softened meals and swallow some pride.  He stayed with us for a few more summers, and then one day he was not at the door begging.

Picnics were never the same for us, but children’s lives were enriched with stories to tell because of one dog named Thursday.

 

*The True Story: Thursday, the English Bulldog, belonged to George Haralson's  family, and their dog did spend many of summer day at the club. He would follow the kids to the pool daily. 

We all knew that Thursday belonged to the Haralson's but he shared his life with us. 

George tells me that yes, Thursday ate an M-80 from a July 4th Fireworks but that he ate it on the front porch of the Haralson's home, never at the club. The results were the same, no matter where Thursday stood that fateful day. Like the story goes, he lived through that explosion to wag his tail again. 

**The funny story is that all of these years that I have told that story to audiences, I believed I really saw it happen. When George told me his version last summer, I was shocked.