Don't Wanna

We have just received an invitation to a group dinner party.  There are four couples who have been celebrating New Years Eve together for several years, and recently we've taken turns inviting the other couples for dinner every couple of months.  I enjoy all of the other people in the group, and we've always had a good time.  Except for my brother-in-law's girlfriend and myself, the other group members are all golfers.  We don't hold it against them.

The most recent email included the phrase that "Susan and Sandy can golf too" since apparently the dinner includes a golf date.  I don't like golf.  I don't want to golf.  I don't even like mini putt.  I resent being put into the position that I have to golf.

Please understand, my parents were avid golfers.  As a matter of fact you could probably describe them as fanatics, and I wouldn't argue with you.   My mother played at least 3 rounds of golf during the week, and golfed competitively in the women's league.  I can recall Dad getting up at 5 am on Saturday morning to golf before going in to work a half day, and then golfing again with my mother on Sunday.  When Dad retired, his colleagues bought them several rounds of golf at the world famous St. Andrew's course in Scotland.  They also played Pebble Beach and Augusta.  When we moved to Winnipeg, my parents bought a house that backed onto one of the better private golf courses in Winnipeg and I was under intense pressure to take advantage of the location.

I have no happy memories associated with this game.   When we went on vacation we were taken golfing because there was no one to babysit.  That meant we had to be very quiet, walk very quickly, watch where the golf ball landed, and I had to keep my younger brother amused.  My parents were intensely competitive people who golfed together every weekend and at least once during the week.  If my mother played better than my father, she made sure he knew.  So he shaved a few strokes and hoped she wouldn't notice, but of course she did.  The resulting discussion usually meant they didn't speak to each other for several days.  And on weekends once they were home from the golf course, there was always golf to be watched on television. 


When I married and had children all their interactions with their grandparents revolved around golf.  We didn't see my parents on summer weekends because they golfed every day, and if there was a major golf tournament televised they were unavailable as well.  If we were invited out for a meal, it inevitably was eaten at their golf course because they had to spend a specific amount of money there each month.  If they came to our house it was understood that the golf channel would be available.


My parents both detested Tiger Woods, and I believe it is no coincidence that his game hit the skids in 2009, the year they both died.  I am actually very comforted by the thought that they are spending their afterlife haunting Tiger Woods, because I know how much they would enjoy watching him suffer.  In May 2011 my brother and I scattered their ashes by the Assiniboine River in Winnipeg, on the golf course where they spent their happiest times.

Mum and Dad could never understand why I was not interested in their favourite game.  I gather the hostess of our next dinner party doesn't understand my lack of interest either.  I have spent most of my life deflecting, explaining, sitting quietly and watching golf.  I speak the language of golfers fluently.  I have seen their frustrations, and the joy of hitting the ball well.  Actually, I think I have actually played at least four games of golf over the past 50 years and lived to tell the tale.  However, I have been overexposed to the game, and somewhere deep inside there is a little girl stomping her feet and screaming "don't wanna golf, not gonna golf, and you can't make me!"  Unfortunately, since Sandy says she's up for the challenge, I don't think I have a choice.