By Dr. Sam Christensen
The uglier a man's legs are, the better he plays golf. It's almost a law.
~H.G. Wells
The skies opened, and by the time the storm was done our town had been deluged with nine inches of rain. I know it sounds unbelievable, but trust me, it was nine inches if it was a drop.
The uglier a man's legs are, the better he plays golf. It's almost a law.
~H.G. Wells
The skies opened, and by the time the storm was done our town had been deluged with nine inches of rain. I know it sounds unbelievable, but trust me, it was nine inches if it was a drop.
Our club course closed so the grounds crew could sort things out. But a phone call to a local public course, on a more elevated property suited to quicker drainage, found us a place to play. It was ninety-five degrees and the sun was out in force. It was a frightful day, a real steam bath. One of those days when you reach for one tee in your pocket, but the cloth is so damp and sticky that all your tees, ball markers, pivot tools and what have you come peeling out as well.
One member of our foursome was my then aged father-in-law, Mr. Louis Walker, who in his prime had played to a 3-handicap. He had been a player of statewide renown, a champion of tournaments at many levels. He was a very large man, not only in the physical sense but also ethically. Mr. Walker was one who played by the rules completely, in golf and life. He was a successful businessman, a prominent civic leader, a devoted father, and a pillar of the church.
Even as his skills declined with age, Mr. Walker's competitive edge never left him. His golf that hot day was frightful and he grew very upset about it. He played a losing front nine, the thick, suppressive air bringing out the worst in him. Uncharacteristically, his mood was down, and each hole he complained vocally about the conditions, his swing, and the world in general.
We stopped for liquids at the turn. After two lackluster shots on the par-5 10th, Mr. Walker was still not in range of the green. His son and I had just hit our second shots, when his son, speechless and with a flabbergasted look, mutely pointed across the fairway with his gloved left hand. I turned to see what was shocking him so.
Mr. Walker, ever the model of propriety, there stood in his boxers. We watched as the old man then carefully folded his trousers and placed them in the basket of the cart.
His son and I rushed over to see what his intentions were. "Simple," Mr. Walker said. "I've figured out the trouble with my swing. My trousers are too damp from the humidity so I can't pivot properly."
So there he stood, a man known to everyone in the city, in red and white boxer underwear, a blue polo shirt, a white cap, black shoes and black socks, and with very, very white legs.
His son and I proffered that several problems could arise; other women golfers on the course could be offended, possibly the police would arrive with charges ranging from indecent exposure to lunacy. None of our warnings fazed him, however, and we played on. At one point Mr. Walker was so bold as to cross another fairway to point out to a female golfer where he'd seen her ball enter a hazard. Her thank you was perfunctory, nervous, careful, and while backing away.
And you know what? Mr. Walker managed those last eight holes in 1-over par. He took all the money and left me with a day of golf I remember with awe, comedy, and perhaps reverence.
One member of our foursome was my then aged father-in-law, Mr. Louis Walker, who in his prime had played to a 3-handicap. He had been a player of statewide renown, a champion of tournaments at many levels. He was a very large man, not only in the physical sense but also ethically. Mr. Walker was one who played by the rules completely, in golf and life. He was a successful businessman, a prominent civic leader, a devoted father, and a pillar of the church.
Even as his skills declined with age, Mr. Walker's competitive edge never left him. His golf that hot day was frightful and he grew very upset about it. He played a losing front nine, the thick, suppressive air bringing out the worst in him. Uncharacteristically, his mood was down, and each hole he complained vocally about the conditions, his swing, and the world in general.
We stopped for liquids at the turn. After two lackluster shots on the par-5 10th, Mr. Walker was still not in range of the green. His son and I had just hit our second shots, when his son, speechless and with a flabbergasted look, mutely pointed across the fairway with his gloved left hand. I turned to see what was shocking him so.
Mr. Walker, ever the model of propriety, there stood in his boxers. We watched as the old man then carefully folded his trousers and placed them in the basket of the cart.
His son and I rushed over to see what his intentions were. "Simple," Mr. Walker said. "I've figured out the trouble with my swing. My trousers are too damp from the humidity so I can't pivot properly."
So there he stood, a man known to everyone in the city, in red and white boxer underwear, a blue polo shirt, a white cap, black shoes and black socks, and with very, very white legs.
His son and I proffered that several problems could arise; other women golfers on the course could be offended, possibly the police would arrive with charges ranging from indecent exposure to lunacy. None of our warnings fazed him, however, and we played on. At one point Mr. Walker was so bold as to cross another fairway to point out to a female golfer where he'd seen her ball enter a hazard. Her thank you was perfunctory, nervous, careful, and while backing away.
And you know what? Mr. Walker managed those last eight holes in 1-over par. He took all the money and left me with a day of golf I remember with awe, comedy, and perhaps reverence.
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