The Club

When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time at my grandparent’s house, and my sisters and I loved it. Once a month, my grandfather and his friends met for “boy’s poker night”. All of the men took turns hosting the evening, and I loved it when it was my Papa’s turn. Since San Francisco is so dense, pretty much all of the houses, regardless of district are built tall and narrow. The living area is upstairs but downstairs, usually right off of the basement (if you’re from SF, the garage is ALWAYS called the basement), is a room… ahhhh, the rumpus room. This lovely space was created with the specific intent of being a place to have cocktail parties, and little gatherings. This is also the best place for a boy’s night with the chips, the cards, libations and cigars. When poker night was at my grandparents, I made every excuse possible to hang out down there. I’d see if they needed anything from upstairs, bring snacks, say “oh, did you call me”, knowing they hadn’t. Anyway, the rumpus room was the fun place and I would rather hang out with the guys than with the ladies. Although I am the girliest of girls, the cheerleader, not the jock, I really don’t dig the whole hens clucking thing. I think this is one of the many things that has drawn me to golf.

Being a chick at the course has absolute advantages. Firstly, the men are not threatened by our presence, and perhaps appreciate the occasional whiff of the lightly (the operative word here is “lightly”) perfumed chickadee. However, the objective (at least for me) is not to bask in male attention… I’m really just trying to work on this darned swing. However, if I’m going to be the hen in the rooster house, I need to adopt an attitude of graciousness. For example, I often hit the driving range in the middle of a stressful day to clear my head. Sometimes I hit balls to work on a swing correction and get a handle on it before actually playing. But whatever the reason, I’m out there for some peace and quiet (oh and… unless you’re waiting on a heart for a transplant, leave your cell phone in the darned car!). Anyway, there I am, minding my own business hitting balls, trying to get into my little groove, and sure enough, the guy next to me, or walking by, or 10 stalls down, feels compelled to offer some coaching. Eh ehmmm.. look dude, I just saw that shank of all shanks you hit, so umm, I’m all set. Perhaps I could offer you a tip or two? Hehe…

It is just part of the chemical make up of men, to be Mr. Fix it. This is generally one of men’s most redeeming qualities, but sometimes it can be a little overwhelming. I’m quietly working on my swing, then I have to humor the guy who has just offered his advice by pretending to incorporate his suggestion into my swing, whilst he stands behind me and watches a few, taking any and all credit for a good shot.. siiiiiigh … Now this is an easy day. I have had range sessions that have included a small cluster of Mr. Fix It’s vying for their place as my personal Mr. Miyagi… and, the thing is, I already have one. But thanks guys, love ya!

It is important to remember what your instructor has taught you and practice that on the range. If you are taking lessons with a pro, or whoever is sort of in charge of fixing your flaws, keep in mind what they have suggested. It’s nice to have input if you are having an issue with one thing in particular that one day, and free advice is nice and all, but it can really create additional issues, and/or undo all the work you’ve already done with the correction. However, be polite and appreciative… the guys want to help and physiologically, they HAVE to help. Seriously… how cute is that?? Boys will be boys… and really have no choice in the matter.

Let it be.