From Chicken Soup for the Romantic Soul

Golf Course Romance

My husband, Roy, had always wanted to play golf. I had heard the horrid “golf widow” stories and never encouraged the game. After quite a few years of marriage and raising three children, we were informed by our twin sons, Brad and Chad (now young adults), that they were taking up the sport of golf. Needless to say, they wanted their daddy to play with them. They begged and pleaded, but he had lost interest several years earlier.

Our sons surprised Roy with a set of golf clubs one Father’s Day. During our vacation that year, the three of them played a round of golf. Since he had so much fun, Roy wanted to share the experience with me.

“Let’s go to the golf course,” he begged one Saturday afternoon.

“Why on earth would I want to play golf?” I asked.

“You can drive the cart,” he replied. “Please.” I saw a pitiful look on his face—just like a little boy with no money in a candy store.

My first thought was, Sure I can, but I could also drive my car to the mall. It would be cooler and a lot more fun. I looked back at his sad face and finally agreed to go.

“Now how long will this take?” I asked with a twinge of resentment in my voice.

“We will only play nine holes,” he said. He whistled as he got his equipment together. We headed for the green grass of the golf course.

I moaned as I got out of the car and sat down in the driver’s seat of a little white golf cart. This was not my idea of a good time. Before I started up the engine, Roy started trying to teach me the rules of the road.

“What rules?” I shouted as I took off, driving full speed.

“Slow down,” he begged. I laughed and kept driving. “You can only drive in designated spots,” he sternly informed me.

“And who is going to stop me?” I joked. I was already feeling rebellious.

When we reached the tee box at hole number 1, he was shaking his head.

It was clear that he was relieved to get off of the speeding golf cart. He set up for his first swing while I watched, wondering why people think golf is so much fun. It looked mighty boring to me.

He hit the ball but had no idea where it went. For the next fifteen minutes we searched for it.

“Oh, this is fun,” I chided him.

“We’ll just get another ball,” he placated me, as he opened the pouch on his golf bag and pulled one out.

Back we went to the tee box. This could take all afternoon, I grumbled to myself. When Roy hit the ball a second time, we found it down the fairway a little way. After quite a few strokes, the ball went into the hole. I can’t remember the last time I saw my husband that happy.

What was the big deal? I wondered.

The driving game was on. We were off and speeding to the next hole. I was driving the cart, and he was walking. He said he needed the exercise, but I knew he was afraid of my driving. He spent a great deal of time hitting the ball and then looking for it, while I watched the squirrels and rabbits play.

Something entirely unexpected happened by the time we reached the fifth hole. We were laughing, harder than we had in many years. The financial stress associated with putting three kids through college was gone. The strain of “too much work and too little play” was replaced by happy hearts and smiling faces. To my utter amazement, a golf course romance was born.

By the time we got to hole number 6, I had fallen in love again. I felt like a young bride accompanying her Prince Charming. Suddenly, he looked so cute trying to keep up with that little white ball.

When we got to hole number 7, I sensed that he was watching me more than the ball. “Keep your eye on the ball,” I reprimanded him.

“But I can’t,” he replied. “I like looking at you.”

At that point, he decided that he would ride with me again. This time, he didn’t get upset when I drove too fast. By the time we reached hole number 8, we were holding hands. I don’t know if he was holding on for dear life or if he enjoyed holding my hand, but nevertheless, I liked it.

It had been a long while since we last held hands.

The last hole, number 9, was the best hole of all. Before he stepped off the cart, he leaned over and kissed me. “I’m glad you came,” he said.

“I had so much fun. Can we come back next week?” I asked. A smile covered his face—and mine.

“Yes, and next time we’ll play eighteen holes,” he asserted. He smacked the ball and it soared off into the woods. We both giggled as we drove off to find yet another lost ball.

This time, it didn’t matter to me. My husband was happy. I was enjoying his company. Golf was just a good excuse to be together. We were not only finding lost balls. We were finding each other again, too.

Nancy B. Gibbs

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