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In the spring golfers are a lot like kids waiting for Christmas. They can hardly wait! So, those lucky enough to be able to head south might get a few rounds in during February or March. Those of us stuck in the frozen tundra have to wait longer. January passes. Maybe you pull your putter out and practice on a carpet somewhere. In February the sun gets higher. There might even be some bare spots in the yard or a field. You get antsy.

March is a cruel month. It should be Spring, but it’s not. Golf infomercials appear with great regularity. CBS starts advertising for its Masters coverage. The snow recedes and preseason grass becomes visible. Just about the time you’re ready to hit a bucket of balls, the state tournament snow storm hits and, for the next ten days, a white blanket covers your practice area.

Finally, you can’t take it anymore. You drive South until you see flagsticks. In my case, I could kill two birdies with one stone. We could visit our daughter and that guy she married and I could play golf. So, we try to figure a time to get away from work for a day or so. We check the weather channel to be sure it’s going to be beautiful.

We head for central Iowa. We arrive Thursday night after five hours of driving into the wind and rain. The long range forecast said it would be nice on Friday. Friday is miserable. It’s 42 degrees and the wind chill makes it feel about zero. I love spring!

All is not lost. The local weathermen said it would be 57-61 degrees with some sun on Saturday. Saturday at noon it was 41.9 degrees. The sun had taken on mythical qualities, something tales are told of, but not actually seen. By 2 pm the thermometer had rocketed to 45.9.

We’re going in! We find a spot to play at one of the three local courses. On the first tee that guy she married takes his first swing and hits one about 260. The daughter hits it just left of center, gets a bad bounce and ends in the first cut of rough.

I grip the club, pick out a target, take my stance, and, like Casey at the bat, take a mighty swing. The ball heads left and dives like a “zero heading for the Arizona.” The daughter says, “Halfway between the plane and the culvert,” apparently unaware that my shot had been a practice one (We were playing at an American Legion golf course and a jet fighter is prominently displayed on the grounds). After that unfortunate start, I re-tee and manage to get my first bogey of the season.

Number two will certainly go better. As we wait to hit, the sun peeks out and the temperature seems to rise about 10 degrees. The other guy hits it about 300 yards down the right side on this 600 yard monster. The daughter hits a skyball, but it lands in the middle of the fairway on the down-slope and and gets a decent roll. I hit it straight down the left side. There’s one tree on that side and I hit it. I hit a good second shot, but I’m still 200 from the pin. I pull it again and hit another tree to the left of the green. I chunk my chip, but get it close enough to save my bogey.

After my tee ball on three clangs off an out-of-bounds fence, I’ve lost interest in how the others are doing. I top my second shot and am still 280 yards out. My third shot goes better. From about 50 yards out, I scruffed a wedge close enough for one of the others to give me the putt. Another bogey!

After a good tee shot on four, my nine wood falls short of the green. A bad approach and a lucky chip allow me to card bogey number four. I was obviously distracted as we talked about the houses to the left of the fairway. On number five, I was distracted by some recumbent bikers on the bike path adjacent to the fairway.

The guy my daughter married distracted me on number six by telling a story about the first time they had played the course. It seems that it was almost dusk when they passed the water hazard to the right of the fairway. Two guys on a golf cart pulled up to the hazard, pulled out fishing rods and casted into the pond. This distraction caused me to get another bogey. Meanwhile, my companions each managed their second consecutive pars.

I bogeyed number seven. It took me four shots on an easy par three. I must have still been thinking about those fishermen.

Off the eighth tee, a vicious wind pushed my drive to the right. I have no explanation as to the reasons that my golfing partners’ tee shots were unaffected by the wind. When we located my ball, it was resting in a pile of stuff some geese had left behind. I immediately took advantage of the “goose under repair” rule and took a free drop (a thorough knowledge of the rules is a must for all golfers). From there, I hit a towering six iron that came to rest on the front of the green. I choked like a dog on the birdie attempt, but did make the par putt. That’s one par in a row!

Number nine is a 159 yard, uphill par three. I hit a five iron about 15 feet feet left of the stick. My birdie putt missed on the high side (like you’re supposed to). I made the par putt. That’s two in a row!

That’s the trouble with golf. Every once in a while you hit a good shot. It’s addictive. When a golfer hits that good one, all those shots that hit trees or are unfairly pushed by the wind or end up where the geese had been fade away.

I just wish we didn’t have to drive 275 miles to suffer these indignities.

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