Seeing Red

by Katharine Dyson

Sock It To Me

It all started at Turnberry in Scotland playing the Ailsa course. It was after the 3rd hole where killer views of the sea,  dunes, grasses and craggy rocks with the lighthouse standing sentry on the edge of the rocks took my breath away along with my concentration. With carries over cavernous drops and shots through narrow gorse-protected openings and impossible recoveries, I was struggling.

Playing a just-for-fun match with Rachel, a local girl and one of our hosts, there was no doubt she was a player. She could pound the ball and even more miraculously, she could find it over a gorse-covered hill.

I was losing the match, but who cared.  We were having a great time. And hey, I was in Scotland —Turnberry.  Everything was great.

With four holes to go we were even.

“Want to play for something fun going in?” asked Rachel.

“Sure. What did you have in mind? Couple bucks? A Guinness?”

“Humm. Let’s play for socks.”

“Socks?” Why not?

She took the next hole, we tied the next and then I won the 17th. We were down to the wire. Then I got a fair drive which I thought might be findable. She hit hers OB. (Was it possible for the first time in our game, she purposely lined up a bit left? Nah.That would be carrying hospitality too far.)

After holing out we went into the pro shop where she picked out a pair of white socks embroidered with the Turnberry  lighthouse in gold. “Here, to remind you of today and Scotland,” she said with a smile, handing me the package.

A few weeks later, playing in a team event in North Carolina, we’d been collecting points for wins over the past three days. This last day was a match play format. I was playing against Steve, an easy, friendly guy from London. Our handicaps were similar and I had the advantage of driving from the forward tees. Still he was killing me. By the 9th hole, I was down five. No doubt feeling sorry for me or maybe the English chivalry thing kicking in, he generously gave me a three foot putt to tie the 9th.

“Let’s just have a good time on the back nine,” he offered with genuine warmth. “Want to play for something just between us?”

“Sure. What do you want to play for?”

“Socks?”
Those socks again. What was it about these Brits? A national trend?

“O.K. Socks,” I agreed. And I took the next hole, and next hole and in fact, the next five holes. It had to be the socks. Steve was scratching his head. He starting miss-hitting, shanking.

“Guess you really want those socks, huh?” he said with a grin.

“Must be,” I said.

And yes, I won the back nine and the socks. This time, a pair of nutty upbeat anklets with bumblebees and a sunflower. I loved them. They cheered up my sock drawer.

On another outing in Alabama  playing with my friend Joel, a writer from Savannah, a guy who lives to bet, I negotiated a deal: He gave me two strokes a hole except for par 3s. The wager appealed to his macho side. He knew he could beat me. But that day I had the round of my life and with the strokes he gave me… we went into the pro shop and I snagged a pair of black socks while he pulled out his wallet.

The next day Joel demanded a rematch. But no way would he give me any more strokes than my handicap required.   And yes, this time I was  the one who paid the $8.95.

And so it went. Socks. Socks here, socks there, socks everywhere.

Now whenever I get ready to play golf and need white socks, I dig out the ones with the gold crest for they trigger instant recall of that trip to Turnberry and the fun Rachel and I had playing that wonderful historic course. And the bee socks? They evoke the sunny day Steve and I played the graceful oak-lined course in the Carolinas.  Or the black ones? How can I forget he look on Joel’s face when he had to dig into his pocket: priceless.

And what about the watermelon-colored socks I won recently in a game wager with my friend Jeanne? That was the day she told me she was expecting her first child. Or the socks with the little lady bugs on them I won on a girls’ getaway weekend in Vermont. Can’t beat that.

There’s a flip side too. Whenever I run into Joel, he never says just “How are you hitting it?” He reminds me, “Hey, I still have those socks, you know the ones I won two years ago when we played Kiva  Dunes and I beat you by five skins?” Would he have remembered a mere gin and tonic?

So when anyone suggests a friendly wager, you know my answer. After all I am building a drawer full of memories. I’m playing better so maybe I should up the ante. I’m thinking Italian: Marcoliani  Milano’s silky Fil d’Ecosse or maybe cashmere cotton. The  pink, rose, lavender and turquoise stripes should be perfect. 

Wanna bet? FG