TO A TEE

by Melodie Johnson Howe

My inspiration to become a writer came from Chandler, Fitzgerald, West, Tolstoy, Flaubert, Stout…. I could go on and on. So I took up golf because of John Updike, P. G. Wodehouse, and other writers I admire who played the game. The connection seemed logical to me.

It was a hot summer day and I was at the driving range taking my fifth lesson with six other ladies. We were in a row sticking our tees into the ground. On the first day the female instructor showed us how to do this by placing the golf ball on the cup of the tee, holding the stem between your fingers, and then poke it into the ground. The other golfers started to practice their swings. I was still trying to get my tee into the ground. My little patch of earth has turned into the Gobi Desert, Death Valley, or the Oklahoma Dust Bowl of the 1930s. I broke the stem of the tee. Digging another out of my pocket I searched for moister earth, then I jammed the tee in. My ball rolls off of it and dribbles away. My fellow student next to me whistled softly to herself. She has been whistling the same tune since our first lesson. It wasn’t till the third that I finally remembered the name of the song: “Whistle While you Work.” The song is from the Disney movie, “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.”

As I retrieved my ball I give her a quick look to see if there was any irony or subversive intention in her choice of music. She had stopped whistling and was ready to strike the ball. Her head was down, knees bent, ass out, (“pretend you’re going to sit in a chair,” the teacher had told us). She swings. SWISH! WHACK! Her ball soared from the tee, arched beautifully, and dropped near the flag. (The flag we’d been told was our target.)

I got my ball back on the tee, I concentrated on getting my grip just right. Left forefinger straight. Right forefinger looped around it somehow. My hand was sweating in my glove. My hat pulled low over my face. I was in position: shoulders squared to the ball, ass slightly out, knees bent. My lower back was killing me. I stared at the ball which was shrinking in size. Keeping my head down, I swung. Slow fast. Or was it fast slow? There was no swishing sound. Only a loud THUD. I had dug the head of my club into a foot of earth. Pain reverberated up my arms to my shoulders and neck. My vision jumped and flickered. I tried not to scream in pain. I thought of the all the sports terms like, “Rub dirt on it.” “There’s no crying in baseball.” I assumed it was the same for golf. I took a deep breath. “Play through the pain.” I looked for my ball. It was where I had left it, on the tee. The woman began to whistle. “It’s off to work we go. It’s off to work we go.” I gritted my teeth.

The sun beat down on me. We practiced for about a half hour. Twice my ball sailed with a swish and a whack, filling me with hope. With awe. And then I was back to digging holes (politely called divots) with my shovel-club sometimes referred to as a nine iron. I began to notice that the instructor was looking at me with that same imperious murderous look of a Mrs. Danvers and I felt like the new Mrs. de Winter who doesn’t belong in Rebecca’s manor house. She told us to get back to our carts. We were going to the golf course. Everybody was excited, But I felt dread. Mrs. Danvers paired me with The Whistler.

In the cart The Whistler and I made polite conversation. I noticed that she whistled when there was silence. I figured if I kept talking I wouldn’t have to listen to the Seven Dwarfs going off to work. As I tried to think of something to say we took a sharp curve. There was a loud clatter. I peered over my sore shoulder. My clubs were strewn along the road. The Whistler stopped the cart and we get out. I began to laugh uncontrollably. She blew her song out through her lips.

My hysteria under control, we somberly picked up my clubs as if they had died a slow death. She stopped whistling long enough to show me how to put my bag in the cart so that would never happen again. I sheepishly thanked her and tried not hum “ … it’s off to work we go.”

In the cart I let out a deep sigh and said, “I took up golf because I heard that John Updike plays.”

She nodded, agreeing, as if that was why everybody took up golf. I saw her lips pucker. She was going to do it again! I babbled on:

“I’m a writer. I thought I needed something that would take my mind off my work. Something that would get me out in the fresh air. Something besides my characters, my words. Something that would clear my head.”

She nodded. But she wasn’t listing. I knew “Whistle While You Work” swirled in head and she needed to let it out.

I stared at the nearing golf course. Then I had my epiphany. I hated golf. I hated it with all my heart. I hated it deeply and forever. I didn’t care if John Updike golfed. I didn’t care if other writers found it bracing.

Driver in hand, I pondered my revelation as I approached the first tee. I took a practice swing. There was no swishing sound. Then I faced the ball and swung. Swish! Whack! It sailed high and long down the fairway, and landed just short of the green. My co-students complimented me. For a moment I felt as I if I’d just written the best short story ever. And then I realized I was going to have to do it again. I was going to have to start all over from the beginning one more time. And I knew why I would never play golf. It was too much like writing. Writing is rewriting. Golf is all revision. The lone player and the ball was the same as the lone writer and the blank piece of paper.

I got back in the cart and we zipped down to the green. Mrs. Danvers watched me as I tried to loft the ball up to the green. I lifted it but not high or far enough. It rolled back down the incline to my feet. Mrs. Danvers smiled coldly. But I didn’t care. She was going to have a fiery death anyway. I just wanted to get through the rest of the afternoon and then go home to where my revisions mattered. To my characters, stories, and ideas. I repressed the need to whistle, “it’s off to work we go.”

My clubs are now in our hallway. The bag is a deep burgundy color which goes beautifully with my color scheme. They have become a Ralph Lauren touch. They have become décor. My husband once used my nine iron to chase a coyote away from our small dog. They are clubs, after all.