Tossed in Translation

by Tom Skierka

The masses swarmed John Roskelly. This was a man who had climbed Mt. Everest in conditions no mortal man should face. Now the Spokane county commissioner in Washington State faced almost a riskier challenge. A links-mob stormed the doors of City Hall protesting Roskelly’s suggestion of raising greens fees from $18 to $20. It was like he hawked a loogie from the top of the world onto our golfing community. His proposal was rejected and Roskelly returned to Everest. He probably felt safer up there.

We take our inexpensive greens fees for granted, something I became painfully aware of a few years ago. I was feeling sarcastically euphoric walking off the 9th hole at Indian Canyon Golf Course. I had landed inches from the pin for an easy birdie. Three putts later, I approached the 10th tee muttering to the bemusement of three Asian-American men drinking sip-cup beer.

“Hey buddy,” said one. “You speak Japanese? I heard you back there,” he pointed.

“Oh,” I laughed. “In college I lived with some Japanese agriculture students. They taught me the dirty words. It’s the only way I can express myself when I’m golfing with my parents. Mom keeps a bar of soap in her bag.”

If only my putt fell as flat as my joke. Instead they tilted their heads. I went for misdirection, much like my drives that day. After a brief introduction, I learned Jack, Mick and Lee were from San Francisco.

“We play here every week,” said Lee. “It’s cheaper to play here than there. Greens fees cost about the same as an airline ticket with our frequent flyer miles. Plus, you can’t get on as easy as you can here. So, it’s cheaper, better golf, cleaner air and it’s nice to get out of town where you can’t be bothered.”

A few weeks later, I was invited to play golf with 20 sportswriters from Japan at Hidden Lakes Golf Course in Hope. They were extremely proper and polite. They called me sir. I dug that. It was going to be a nice quiet, relaxing round with my peers and the wildlife.

The first to tee sliced into a moose and let loose a barrage of F-bombs and linens. “Sheet!” he yelled. “Ma-Ma-Fa-Fa moose!”

The flurry still lingered as I prepared to drive. The ball went aquatic. 

“Kooso!” I yelled, which means “sheet.” Silence filled the fairway. I looked from face to face; none was happy to hear my discouraging word. I tiptoed back to the cart. I wondered if Kenji, my cart partner, was going to make me ride in the back. He finally spoke.

“Tom,” he said, shaking his finger. “You don’t say kooso.”

“But doesn’t that mean sheet?”

“Yes,” he said, “You say sheet. No kooso. Very bad.”

We rode in my humbled silence. He put a hand on my shoulder. “I know all the words in English. I know sheet, fa-fa, ma-ma-fa-fa, somebeach, izole, and the worst — he looked around cautiously and whispered — “Your-parents-aren’t-married.”

“My-parents-aren’t-married? That’s not a bad word,” I said. “It’s as common as sheet. It’s actually a word of affection. ‘Hey you ol’-parents-aren’t-married, let’s get a beer and some hot wings.’” “Really?” he said. “Well…somebeach.”

We became friendly. He told me that in Japan, it costs most people over a million dollars to secure a club membership. Some reservations are made two years out and require a deposit. Many in my Japanese delegation hadn’t played golf in over a year.

On No. 9, the groups gathered to putt out before lunch. Kenji rimmed the cup and watched his ball roll down and off the green.

“He screamed. “Ma-fa-parents-aren’t-married-ball!”

An inhale stole the mountain air. Fingers of blame pointed at me, the only one who thought it was funny. I plotted a course for Everest. Then Kenji spoke, heads nodded. They turned and smiled. As we headed for the clubhouse, they praised my diplomatic skills. “Let’s have some beer and hot wings you ol’ parents-aren’t-married.” FG