MY WHOLE LIFE I’ve searched for the perfect member-guest partner, but always in vain. After the tournament starts I find myself trying to control a killer sigh because I’m stomping around in the rough trying to help my partner find his golf ball. This inevitably happens on a difficult hole where we badly need a par, but I’m in my pocket, and my partner suddenly introduces a swing that comes in three pieces—hula hoop, wood chop, heart attack.
Small wonder that in a lifetime of playing my heart out in member-guests I’m 0-for-Steuben. I can only dream of a partner who doesn’t tell golf jokes, doesn’t bully clubhouse waiters, doesn’t hit on the cart girl, wears long pants, and brings a 16 he can play to without falling down.
The types of partners I’ve dealt with:
“Do you have to dress like this?” I say. “Who started this trend, a soccer team?”
“It’s hot. I like to stay cool.”
“Could you at least wear white socks?”
“I would look like a basketball player. Stop staring at me.”
“I’m trying to envision Ben Hogan in shorts and anklets.”
The New Set of Clubs Collector
He has a handy alibi. The clubs are doing it, not him.
“I usually play better than this,” he says, “but I never do.”
“That’s actually funny.”
“It’s these new clubs. This hook is killing me.”
“Your slice is killing me more than your hook.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve never sliced this bad either.”
“Well, I can’t wait until tomorrow.”
“What’s tomorrow?”
“Alternate shots.”
The Long-Putter Wizard
It’s a tradition in my family to hate the long putter, and hating it almost as much as we hate tripe on a plate. There are many things the long putter is better suited for. Fishing. Pole vaulting. Measuring.
I say to my partner, “I don’t care much for the long putter myself. It’s unsightly. Especially the broomstick.”
“Man, I couldn’t putt without it.”
“It seems to wobble in the wind.”
“Yes, but it helps me on the two-footers.”
“We never have a two-footer.”
He was put on earth to track down rules criminals. He instantly reports someone to the FBI who accidentally has more than fourteen clubs in the bag. He cautions the CIA to be on the lookout for the terrorist who gains an inch or two when marking his ball.
He said to me, “Look at that jerk who has us two down. He just moved out of a lateral hazard. That’s a clear violation of 34-6, paragraph 16a, section 27.”
“Was that you last week who called in the illegal drop on Tiger Woods when you were watching TV?”
“Yes. It was my moral obligation.”
“They didn’t penalize him, though.”
“No, they didn’t. He claimed an allergy did it. Watch what you’re doing!”
“I’m addressing my ball.”
“You’re standing in the middle of a 13-2, section 3b!”
“God help us.”
The Equipment Victim
He’s never met an oversize composite-flex-plutonium-ceramic-fusion-wide sole-uranium driver he didn’t want to take to dinner and a movie.
“Here it is, my man,” he says. “You have to know the satellite coordinates before you swing this baby.”
“That’s the biggest one I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s the key to the vault.”
“What’s it called?”
“Cowboy Stadium.”
He’s done it all. Been everywhere more than once. He’s played the Beach, the Point, the Foot, the Nole, the Hills, the Oak, the Wicker, and the Riv.
He’s canned the loop at the Old. He’s tested the Maid, the Shinny, and the Nash out in the Hamps.
He arrives saying, “Played the Big Track last week. Lot of Poa.”
The Big Track could mean anything from Augusta National to Pine Valley.
The Val, I mean.
The Instruction Book Slave
Far be it from me to disagree with the curved left arrow pointing from my left shoe up to my right shoulder. Or the dotted line showing my clubhead leaving my shaft and flying toward Des Moines, Iowa. But this particular partner understands everything about it.
“Look at your feet,” he says.
“Why?”
“You’re out of position. Turn your left toe to 11:58 and keep the right foot on five after twelve.”
“What time is my grip, would you say?”
“It’s a little left of two fifteen.”
“I have a confession to make.”
“What is it?”
“I’m not a good enough golfer to read golf instruction.”