Spousal Abuse

Yesterday at the beauty shop, I overheard another client tell the guy styling her hair that she and her husband were playing in a couples golf tournament in the mountains this weekend.  When he said that it sounded like fun, the woman shook her head.

“I don’t think so.  The name of the tournament is The Divorce Open.”

If you gave me a choice between cleaning a bus station bathroom or playing in a golf tournament, I’d have to think about it.  Nevertheless, if Dearly Beloved and I ever played in a tournament together, the marriage would be just fine, thank you.

In the early years of our marriage, Dearly Beloved was a scratch golfer (note to non-golfers: that means ‘damn good’.)  I had never played, but he bought me a set of golf clubs shortly before we headed for a convention at Myrtle Beach one year.  It was being held at a new, luxury hotel with a long, tough golf course and DB was really looking forward to playing it.

At a cocktail party the second evening, I made a new friend, a teacher from a little town in the mountains.  She mentioned that she was the high school golf coach there.  Somehow– must have been the liquor–we decided it would be fun for the two couples to play a round of golf together.  My first ever round of golf.

When I told Dearly Beloved that I had arranged a golf date for us, he looked stricken.  He’d already planned a game for himself with three other really good golfers.  Nevertheless, he cancelled his own match and the next morning the four of us met at the first tee.

DB hit first, a bullet-like riser that whistled at least 250 yards straight up the fairway.  The husband hit next, then the teacher made her way to the tee.  Already, carts were lined up behind us, filled with impatient golfers waiting to start their own rounds.

My new friend had a set of mammaries so large that she had to waggle the club several times to decide whether to go with the under-breast bobble or the over-bosom bounce. Her choice sent the ball clunking along about 50 feet.

My turn.

I whiffed a few times, but not because my bosom was in the way.  Finally I made contact and the ball dribbled off the tee about two club lengths.   I ran out and picked it up and set it back on the tee.  I tried again.  And again.  And again.

DB finally told me we needed to get moving after I hit one that made it about ten yards.  I was oblivious of the glares of the golfers behind us, but my husband, the epitome of politeness and golf etiquette, was surely miserably sympathetic to their plight.

That first hole was interminable.  After numerous whiffs and dribbles, I still hadn’t reached DB’s tee shot. It was harder than I’d anticipated.  It might take two or three holes to get my game perfected, I thought.

DB picked my ball up and told me, “I’m going to throw this out in the fairway so you’ll have a better shot at it and then you just keep hitting and follow the ball to the green.”

The audacity!  Was he kidding?

“Is that the way real golfers do it?” I asked indignantly.

He was incredulous.  “You’re laying 16 and you can’t even see the flag yet.”

With that, my sweet, patient husband reared back and threw my ball with a vengeance out onto the fairway.  Well, that was his intention….

In his anger, he forgot that our cart had a metal frame around the top for a canvas cover. His knuckles hit the top rail at about 90 mph and made a crack louder than his tee shot..

He refused to look at me or acknowledge the pain.  I didn’t dare snicker.

I think we quit about the fourth hole, before the lynch party had fully formed in the parking lot.  BUT, later that afternoon DB and one of his friends went back out on the course with me.  Granted it was drizzling, but they were so patient and encouraging I had a wonderful time. Their balls went straight and I couldn’t hit mine far enough to lose it, so the growing darkness didn’t hamper us.   I certainly wasn’t going to finish a round, but we played anyway until the lightning sent us back to the hotel.

DB has maintained a sweet, patient attitude with me every time I’ve ever gone out with him since that day and he maintains that same demeanor when playing with our kids, sons-in-law, or our grandsons.  He’s a wonderful golf teacher and to the grandsons, playing golf with Granddad is their very favorite thing.

He claims that he looked at his swollen, throbbing knuckles on that day and took his injury as a message from God:  PATIENCE!!! He would never again be a scratch golfer.  He had a handicap now:


19 thoughts on “Spousal Abuse

  1. I love this story. My Hero is not so patient. He, too, is a ‘damn good golfer’ and shortly after we were married (about 27years ago), I borrowed his MOTHER’S clubs and off to the driving range we went. I wiffed and spluttered through a bucket of balls trying out different clubs. I didn’t matter what club I chose, they all went about 25 feet. When I made the comment that I didn’t understand why golfers need so many clubs since they all do the same thing, My Hero promplty packed up all our clubs and said it was time to go. That was the last time I held a club. We have an understanding- I don’t question his golf/hockey purchases and he doesn’t question my knitting purchases!

    1. A PERFECT understanding!!!! That should be added to marriage vows.

      The good thing about having my clubs around is that the grandsons use them now when they come. Can’t say the clubs aren’t used, so evvvvvvvverybody’s happy!

  2. Jincey08

    The “over-bosom bounce”??? Oh, Mary!! This is a priceless post.
    My husband and I have never golfed together, but we did play tennis. Once. That was enough for him AND for me.

  3. You had me at, “the under-breast bobble or the over-bosom bounce”. Have I ever told you that you are the best storyteller around? Whenever I need a good laugh, I know right where to go!

    She spins a mighty, darn fine tale. Yep, she does.

    1. Pshaw, Rhonda, you are the sweetest compliment giver!!!

      Not kidding about the bazoongas, however. If she tried to cross her arms over her chest, she hit herself in the chin.

  4. Not a golfer at all but I loved your recounting of your first time on the course. Poor DB’s knuckles!

    P.S. And thanks for telling this non-golfer what the hell scratch meant, I thought you were about to bake biscuits!

  5. DB sounds like a real saint….The Boss would have wrapped one of those clubs either around my head or thrown them at the people waiting to play through…the man has zero patience….Me…I am a master at miniature golf…..and yes, I cheat to beat the band.

  6. If you hadn’t all ready— I’d say “MARRY THAT GUY.” What a saint !!!
    Your first round sounds all too familiar. I hit the ball ok, just not where it was supposed to go. I visited a lot of nature trails and we had to let so many people “play through” that I was sorry I hadn’t packed a lunch.
    Funny, funny, funny perusual. You really should do a column in the newspaper. Oops, then I’d have to pay to read you.

  7. Marilyn and I can play a hell of a miniature golf game….as long as others aren’t around to make rude comments. We are both lousy, but our contest is to tell the other how much lousier they are. We know our limitations and adore each other for them. As DB does…..

  8. Your DB is a saint and I’m laughing out loud. It’s a bit like my DH taking me skiing as he would be considered a scratch skier and I like my cocoa back at the lodge. Great post.

  9. DB and DH would probably have a great time on the course.

    Me, I’m better suited to Golf Cheerleading. It involves plaid pleated miniskirts, hand-knit sweates from Scotland, and tam-o-shanters. All cheers must be whispered with a strong brogue…the better to get really creative. No jumping, since we pretty much aren’t allowed out of our cart since the time we caused the mower on the adjoining fairway to drive his John Deere into a water hazard. My daughter and I invented this sport–make no mistake, it IS a sport!–and you are welcomed to join us any time. Bring your own libation.

  10. Sounds delightful, but I’ve outgrown my kilt.

    You won’t mind if I sit in the cart and read a book, will you?

    PS. If this involves a trip to Scotland to buy the uniforms, however, count me in.

  11. This is exactly why I do not play golf with my husband. I would happily tootle with him in a cart with a good book on a cool day, and that would be the best I could do for him.

    Your posts always makes me smile.

  12. I can do golf and bowling, but golf is one of the more difficult hobbies of mine. I’m actually a pretty strong girl, so lots of times I’d hit from the guys tee, not the girls, and still make it really nicely. If I don’t practice though it slices here, there, into the water, and I come so close to just chucking the club in the water, hopping into the golf cart, and driving it into the water too.

    Your husband sounds too sweet, it’s hard to have patience, especially in golf!

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