Seeing Red: Down for the Count

by Katharine Dyson

Emily had only been playing golf a little over a year, but she was keen to improve and was hitting the ball really well off the tee. Reporting scores of 105, then 98, 96, 92 and a couple in the high 80s, her handicap was dropping like a rock in a St. Andrews pot bunker. She was on the move to be a contender in our club tournaments. Today was my day to play with her along with my friends, Sue and Beth. I was looking forward to it.

Friendly, perky, slender, Emily even looked the part dressed in her Ecco shoes that matched her hot pink Cutter & Buck capris that matched her white shirt with pink trim and her, yes, hot pink hat. Perfect. Even the little color along the top of her socks was pink. She was hot.

But though Emily walked the walk and talked the talk, I was soon to learn she sadly did not excel in math. Her memory? Well she could be losing that too along with her eyesight.

We were on the second hole, a long par 5 downhill with some serous challenge: trees on the left, a brook running along the right and an elevated green protected by some diabolical bunkers.

My tee shot was nothing to crow about, but it landed in safe territory. Emily shanked her Lady X-Out hard into the ditch on the right.

“Damn,” she said while reaching for another ball.

“That’s a lateral,” replied Sue. You can lift out of there and drop with just a stroke penalty.

“How so?”

“See those red stakes.”

“Where?”

“Right up there along the bank.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“That means you can drop out there.”

“So I don’t have to take another drive?”

“Nope.”

“Great.”

So we started walking toward the place where her ball had disappeared. She was wandering way beyond where I had marked it by a scrawny bush.

“Down here, Emily,” I yelled.

“Really. I thought I went farther.”

“Don’t think so. I marked it by this tree,” I said pointing to the sad excuse for a tree. She joined me and we poked around with our clubs for a couple of minutes.

“It’s probably imbedded. Why don’t you just drop here,” I said indicating a club’s length from where it went.

“I’d really like to find my ball. It’s brand new,” she said continuing to dig. Dig. Dig.

I helped her look until I pointed out that the foursome behind us had caught up to us, one guy standing with hands on his hips glaring. “Guess you’d better get another ball,” I said.

“I’d rather drop it here,” she said, placing her ball on a tuft of grass on the fairway.

“Whatever,” I mumbled.

She hit her next shot. That was better but … rats, it also rolled into the creek, but this time it looked like we could find it. We did. She picked it up and dropped it again on the fairway. “Ahem,” I said. “Doesn’t really matter to me what you do, but you’re supposed to only drop a club’s length from the edge of the hazard. No big deal here, but it’s helpful to know — if you get into any kind of serious tournament.”

“No kidding. O.K. I can do that,” she said smiling, picking up her ball cheerfully and dropping near the brook. “Thanks. I want to know all the rules.”

Taking her 3-wood, she lined up for the green, but her ball went soaring and veered into the trees to the left. It was pretty open, so I knew we’d find it. We did. Problem was, the next shot was intimidating. She’d need to thread the ball (her second new Lady X-Out) between two pathetic trees, over a bunker to a fast-rolling green, which dropped off the back into another bunker.

Ever watched a ball roll around inside a pin ball machine after you’ve pulled the trigger? Off one tree, off another, into the bunker sunny-side up. Hack, hack. Then over the green into the other bunker until finally a clean shot onto the green.

“Great shot,” I said.

“Thanks. Sand intimidates me, except on the beach,” she laughed, her whitened teeth gleaming in the sun.

Three putts and she was in.

I discreetly wrote down my score. She stood on the green looking back toward the tee, counting … one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. And stopped. “Seven. I got seven. Triple bogey. I knew this was a bummer of a hole.”

“Seven?” I said. “Seven? Great job. And because I’m so proud of you, when we finish, I’m taking you into the pro shop and buying you a special gift.”

“What’s that?”

“Think jewelry, as in beads.”

“Beads?”

“Yep. It’s the Abacus ‘Count It’ by Golf Gems. You’ll love it. Semi-precious stones, silver babbles and a clip for hanging on your belt. Very hip.” FG