Thursday, December 24, 1998

We get to open one present on Christmas Eve. Mom and Dad picked which one, which they never do, and they were both watching me in a way that made me nervous.

It was clubs. A whole set. They're used, from the pro shop at the muni, but they're nice: irons with the hollow backs that are supposed to be easier to hit, a metal driver, and they're regular length, which means for the first time since I was nine I'm going to stand up straight over a golf ball.

I cried a little. Not a lot. Dad pretended to read the instruction tag on the driver head cover.

Then I felt bad, because what about Grandma's clubs. Grandma was there, and she must have seen my face, because she said "My clubs got you this far. Let these take you the rest of the way. Keep my putter, though." So the putter stays in the new bag. The rest of Grandma's clubs are going back in the red plaid bag, and the bag is going in my closet, not the basement.

Eli called tonight to say Merry Christmas and also to ask what I got. When I told him he said "Now you have no excuses." That is what passes for nice with Eli.

Merry Christmas to whoever is reading this. The counter says somebody is.

Friday, October 9, 1998

Season's over. We finished third in the conference, which is the best the team has done in a while, and I shot 41 at the conference meet, which is my best nine holes ever. Five over. If you'd told freshman me she'd shoot 41 she would have said something rude and then gone in her room and been happy about it.

Coach Fryar said at the team dinner that next year he expects me in the top three. He said it in front of everybody. Nobody made a face. Well, one freshman made a face, but Omar elbowed him.

Also: I saw Brett. Remember Brett? Pink tees, "sweetheart," all that? He graduated and he works in the pro shop at the muni now while he goes to the community college. I went in to buy a sleeve of balls and he was behind the counter, and I froze. He rang me up and then he said, "Heard you made varsity. That's good." And that was it.

I said "Thanks." I didn't say any of the things from the box. I didn't want to anymore. I don't know what that means. Maybe it means I won.

Tuesday, September 15, 1998

VARSITY.

OK, here's what happened. After two weeks of qualifying, Doug and I were tied for the last varsity spot. Coach had us play a three-hole playoff yesterday after practice, with the whole team watching from the cart path, which was not stressful at all. (It was so stressful.)

First hole we both made bogey. Second hole we both made par. Third hole is a par 3 over a pond, and Doug went first and hit it in the pond. I could hear the splash. Then I had to hit with everybody watching and I just swung like it was the garage net and it landed on the green. I two-putted. Done.

Doug laughed with everybody else last August. Doug was standing next to Brett when Brett said the ladies' tees thing. Yesterday he walked over and shook my hand and said "Good playing," and he meant it, you could tell.

I don't know if he stopped laughing or I stopped listening. Maybe both.

My first varsity match was today. I was the number six player. I shot 45. Grandma's putter made three putts longer than ten feet.

Thursday, August 13, 1998

One year since I made the team. Tryouts again this week. This year there are four new freshmen boys, and one of them, on the first day, looked at me and asked Tim (who's number one on the team and probably the best golfer at our school) if I was the team manager.

Before I could even get my face hot, Omar said, "She's going to outdrive you, man." Then he walked away like nothing happened.

I did outdrive him. On number 1. By like twenty yards. I'm not proud. (I'm a little proud.)

Last year I would have gone home and written five new comebacks. This year somebody said one for me. I didn't even know Omar knew my name.

Wednesday, July 22, 1998

86! Eight shots better than June. Dad carried again.

We came up with a system on the way there. The system is: Dad does not talk unless I ask him something. He can tell me yardage if I ask. He can tell me what he thinks about a putt if I ask. If I don't ask, he is a bag with legs.

It almost killed him. On the fourth hole he opened his mouth and I looked at him and he closed it again. But it worked! He kept a little notebook in his back pocket and wrote down every shot, and on 16, when I was getting tired and hit two bad ones in a row, he didn't say anything. He just handed me a granola bar. At exactly the right time.

On the way home he said "Can I talk now?" and I said yes and he talked for forty-five minutes straight.

Monday, July 6, 1998

I just watched the most amazing thing I have ever seen in golf, and I watched Tiger at the Masters.

The U.S. Women's Open went to a playoff today, eighteen holes on a Monday. Se Ri Pak, who is twenty and from South Korea, against an amateur from college. On the last hole of the playoff Se Ri Pak's drive ended up on the steep bank right at the edge of the water. Everybody thought she'd have to take a penalty drop.

Instead she sat down and took off her shoes and her socks and climbed down into the water. Her feet were SO white compared to her legs, from wearing golf socks all the time. (I have the same tan. It's called golfer's feet and it's the worst.) She stood in the water and hit it back out onto the fairway.

They were still tied after that, so they went to sudden death, and she won on the second extra hole with a birdie putt.

Dad watched it with me. When she took her socks off he leaned forward and said "That's a golfer." Not "that's a lady golfer." Just a golfer. I noticed.

Tomorrow I'm going to the muni to practice from a sidehill lie. With my shoes ON.

Saturday, June 20, 1998

First summer tournament! It's a junior tour, eighteen holes, and you can have a caddie, so Dad carried Grandma's red plaid bag on his shoulder all day. He looked like he was going to a picnic in 1962.

I shot 94. The good news is I was not last. The bad news is Dad read every single putt out loud. And the wind. And the grain on the green. And how the clouds were moving. On number 12 I said "Dad, I need you to just be quiet for one hole," and he looked so hurt that I made a double bogey from feeling guilty.

There were only three other girls in my whole age group. We all looked at each other on the first tee like, hi, you too? One of them hits it a mile.

Dad says next time he'll try "a quieter approach." I'll believe it when I hear it. Or don't hear it.

Sunday, April 12, 1998

Easter. Church, then ham at Grandma's, then the Masters on TV in Grandma's den with everybody asleep except me and Dad and Grandma.

Tiger didn't win this year. Mark O'Meara did. He's 41 and he had never won a major, and he made birdies on the last two holes, a long putt on 18 to win by one. When it went in Dad said "There's hope for us old guys," because Dad is 41 too. Mom woke up and said "Not THAT much hope" and went back to sleep.

Grandma said she likes Mark O'Meara because he looks like he would hold the door for you. That's her whole review.

Monday, March 16, 1998

I turned 15 yesterday. My present was a lesson with the pro at the muni. It was 40 degrees and there was still dirty snow in the parking lot, but the range was open, and he watched me hit about thirty balls without saying anything.

Then he said, "Who taught you?" I said my dad. He said "He did a nice job." I'm telling Dad that word for word at dinner.

Then he said my clubs are holding me back. He measured and Grandma's clubs are an inch and a half too short for me, and that's why I hunch, and that's why I hit everything a little right.

I didn't tell Grandma. I don't want to.

Sunday, January 4, 1998

New year, new page. I got rid of the grass background. You couldn't read anything on it, I know. Also I took off the moving words at the top, because Eli said they made him seasick.

Yes, Eli reads this. He's the only person from school who knows about it. I told him on the last day before Christmas break, sort of by accident. He said, "You have a web page?" like I said I had a helicopter. Then he read the whole thing in the library during study hall and only said one thing about it, which was "the pink tees part was good." Then he asked if he was the skinny kid. I said obviously.

The old stuff from fall is on its own page now (1997). The comeback box is over there too. I'm not taking it down. I might need it again.

My golf resolutions for 1998:

1. Break 45 for nine holes.
2. Make varsity.
3. Say one comeback OUT LOUD. At least one. To somebody's face.
4. Stop saying "whatever" every time somebody asks how practice was. (That one is Mom's.)