Hitting the Links

I'm at the tail end of my week in breast surgery and, having seen nipple after nipple vanish from patients' chests, I'm ready for my next rotation. But before that happens, it's time for some golf! Come on, I'm working with doctors here; had to happen sooner or later.

The drive out to the course was a spectacular change of scenery from Tokyo. After we cleared the city limits, it went something like rice paddy, farm, garden, rice paddy, huge-golf-course-in-the-middle-of-the-countryside. Directions weren't necessary, thanks to the amazingly informative GPS navigation console in the Mini Cooper I was riding in.

As a 40-some handicap, I thought I might be in trouble playing with this mish mash of ER doctors, OR nurses, and breast surgeons. To my surprise, however, everyone was within the same ballpark of golfing ineptitude. My only advantage was the fact that I could knock the hell out of the ball (or take a hoagie sized divot out of the earth - depending on my backswing). I easily claimed the long drive title in a mini-competition the doctors called "compe;" there were many such challenges throughout the course, with prizes awarded at the end of the match, to everyone's delight.

Compe, however, was not the only departure from the traditional rounds I'd played back home. The carts, the sole reason I even accompanied my parents on the many failed attempts to groom my inner "Tiger," were completely automated. I'm not talking automatic transmission, I'm talking Jurassic Park "spared no expense" automation; steering wheels locked in position, the carts guided themselves along the pavement, starting and stopping by remote control. This proved decidedly inconvenient, as this system was clearly designed for the fairway golfer in mind, unable to aid in a search for lost balls; I became increasingly a slave to the cart with each ball sliced deep into the woods.

We had started the round fairly late in the afternoon and, no thanks to the automaton caddies, were quickly engulfed by darkness and dew. The round continued, however, under the hum of dozens of stadium lights. Again, clearly a design for the able golfer, any ball that veered off the fairway in the slightest was lost to the night. On a single hole, I teed up a Titleist, punched-out a Nike, chipped-on a Callaway, and three-putted a range ball. My score was disastrous, but I was comforted on the ride home thumbing the prize I had won for the unrelenting punishment I doled out with my driver, a testament to my unconquerable masculinity - a Mickey Mouse ball marker.