Confessions of a Golf Widow

Let's start with the obvious: I married a golfer.

I'll admit to having precious little knowledge about golf. I recall learning the game in our high school gym class, the teacher demonstrating how to throttle the end of a golf club in a bizarre grip while hunched over in an unnatural position, then admonishing the students that didn't produce a sufficiently relaxed swing. Occasionally my dad could be found watching a weekend tournament on television. But after sitting through five or ten minutes of the sport, I'd wander off and leave him to watch alone.

Never could I understand the attraction of chasing that little white ball over hill and yon, dragging along a heavy bag of clubs, half of which you may never use, scribbling on a tiny scorecard with a miniature pencil.

Then I met Dave.

He and his longtime friend, Keith, played every weekend, both Saturday and Sunday. Even in winter, if the course was open and there was no snow on the ground, they headed out bundled in thick clothing that I imagine would prevent you from making even a halfway decent swing. Yet they never missed an opportunity.

Dave's father was a golfer, and his grandfather before him. It was on those annual trips to Sun City, Arizona, to visit grandparents where Dave learned the game of golf. His grandfather remarked that of all his grandsons, Dave was the only one with any natural talent for the game.

A few times I accompanied Dave on golf outings, where I was given a cushy assignment as golf cart driver. I paid little attention to rules and statistics, but rather spent most of my time observing how the players interacted with one another.

It is a calm, quiet, nearly serene environment until something goes horribly wrong. Next thing you know a frustrated player, cursing loudly, tosses aside the unholy club involved in a ruined shot. Or an even more heinous breach of golf etiquette may occur: talking while someone concentrates on the final putt of a complicated par 5. At this point otherwise happy, fun-loving people suddenly turn deadly serious. It was all I could do to stifle the giggles and steer the cart, without laughing, to the next tee.

During the early years of our relationship, Dave continued playing every weekend, often both days. Once I complained to his mother about the prolonged absences, especially what I considered excessive time spent on the Nineteenth Hole. I mentioned to Marge something along the lines of, "Sometimes I wonder if he's ever coming back." Married to a golfer more than 50 years, she informed me in that calm, quiet way of hers, "Oh, they always come back."

Dave tried to teach me the basics of golf. We ventured out to the driving range where on the few times I actually connected with the ball, it never went far. We played miniature golf together. But these pathetic attempts to learn how to play the game he loves made it painfully obvious that I have no latent golfing skills.

Just as well. Over the years I came to appreciate and understand his love of golf. We have many common interests but there really is no need to share this too. It's something I believe Dave should have all to himself.

More recently I have begun to savor the days when he is golfing. On those days I have a chance, briefly, to live as a single woman again. My golf-day activities might include shuffling about in my pajamas for as long as I like, watching favorite tearjerker movies for the umpteenth time, writing silly stories like this one, or engaging in any number of unproductive pursuits.

Being a golf widow has taught me a few things about the game of golf. The rules may be complex but the rewards are sweet. It is less about competing with others and more about competing with yourself, learning to achieve success in areas that have proven to be your downfall in the past. It's a game that requires patience, concentration, focus. Although at times Dave may seem a bit like an absent-minded professor at home, he does well on the course because deep down inside, he has those qualities in abundance.

As for my confessions, they are really quite boring:

• Sometimes I really enjoy watching golf.
• It's nice occasionally to have the house all to myself.
• I'm proud of the man who made me a golf widow. He is a good golfer and committed to his game. And in my experience, golfers are quality individuals.

Wonder how he played today? I'll find out soon enough. Because, as a wise woman once told me, they always come back.