I am a golf widow.  

My husband is so obsessed by golf, he lives and breathes it.  Golfing is in his blood.  I blame it on his Scottish ancestry.  It is said that the game originated in Scotland, and was first called “Gentlemen Only Ladies Forbidden,” which is supposedly how the word GOLF entered into the English language.  

What is golf, exactly?  Some define it as an endless series of tragedies obscured by the occasional miracle.  All I know is you hit down to make the ball go up, you swing left and the ball goes right, and the lowest score wins.  On top of that, the winner buys the drinks.  

I do not share my husband's passion.  When he dragged me kicking and screaming to a driving range, my air shots gouged big chunks of grass into the wild blue yonder.  I bailed out, which was probably a good thing for the courses.  

Golfing terminology is a mystery to me.  When I hear of birdies and eagles, all that comes to mind is an aviary.  Tee time, a sand wedge, and a slice, have nothing to do with an afternoon snack.  Discussions about handicaps, bogeys, and doglegs make my eyes start to glaze over.  I am familiar with ball markers, although ball washers are an enigma.  I won't even go there.  An ace is a hole-in-one, but how can yelling "fore" alert others to an oncoming ball?  Why not just yell "Watch out, crooked shot coming?"  Isn't a square stance when you swing your partner do-si-do?  And the biggest conundrum: Why is the club called a 3-wood when it is made of metal?  

Golf courses where we live are only open about half the year, but there are other ways to indulge one's appetite for golf.  True hackers practice their swing even as the snow falls.  They have artificial putting greens in their basements.  They play virtual golf, visit the golf dome, or try to beat Jack Nicklaus on the computer.  They watch the golf channel religiously and worship Tiger Woods' every move.  They buy golf magazines and gadgets, and when family members wonder what to buy for a gift, the standard reply is, "Get him a dozen golf balls; he will be thrilled."  And he always is.  

When the golf courses close for the winter, sometimes the golf addict in this family indulges his passion by going on a golf vacation to warmer climes.  Then I end up listening to feverish, detailed descriptions of the thirty-six holes he played every day.  

Excited husband: "I hit a long power fade that bounced twice and ended up stiff to the hole!"  

Wife, yawning, feigning interest: "That's nice, dear."  

"I was swinging over the top almost every day but my putter was saving me!"  

"Yes, dear."  Zzzz.  

While in Florida, my husband almost hit an alligator with a golf ball. Mr. Gator was dozing peacefully on the fairway, surrounded by several abandoned golf balls.  Other duffers had wisely beat a hasty retreat, not even bothering to use their golf ball retrievers.   

To appease the trauma, hubby treated himself to a new sand wedge.  The airline prohibited him from carrying it on the plane, as it could be construed as a weapon, so he had to check it in as luggage.  Wrapped carefully, the wedge traveled from Orlando to Toronto to Winnipeg, and arrived as broken as my husband's heart when he saw the damage.  Fortunately, the airline paid to have it repaired, at a greater cost than the purchase price of the club.  

This man owns more golf shirts than underwear, and sometimes wears strange combinations of colours, because that is the golfer's way.  He once had a pair of plum coloured golf pants, with a golf shirt to match.  After wearing this outfit several times, he discarded the pants because the fabric didn't breathe.  I think his fellow golfers teasingly calling him "Barney," had something to do with it.  Another thing I don't understand, is why golf clothes are so expensive.  

"Look honey, I got two new golf shirts and they were only $75 each!  What a bargain!"  What he spent on two shirts is what I spend on groceries for two weeks. 

One year I bought him a new driver for Father's Day.  He pronounced it too "whippy," and rarely used it.  The following year, I tried to make up for my faux pas by buying him the book Chicken Soup for the Golfer's Soul.  Big mistake.  His attitude was that real men don't read Chicken Soup books any more than they eat quiche.  This year he will get golf balls. 

My husband's dream is to live on the links, with me as his caddie, but I'd rather languish on the nineteenth hole, reading my copy of Chicken Soup for the Golf Widow's Soul.  A hand-painted sign in our house proclaims, "We interrupt this marriage for golf."  No truer words were ever written.  

And that's par for the course.

Previously published in the Winnipeg Free Press.

Author's Biography

Born in Finland, raised in Ontario, now a resident of Manitoba, Maria is a Canadian who writes about people close to her, and non-conventional events.  Her family is often the subject of her essays as they unwittingly provide a plethora of fodder. 

Maria has been published in the local newspaper as well as widely on the internet. When she's not writing, she attempts to play the piano, but ends up tickling funny bones more than the ivories. She does not play golf.

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