The greens party

Part 4

by David Andrew Stoler

An old fart's guide to a clash with the New School

And so golf has come to this present magical moment, a time when all the forces that govern popularity are aligned, in just the right way, to make golf the opposite of what it was a short 15 years ago -- the very essence of cool. The young and the hip are flocking to courses, paying fat green fees, and duffing about like, well, the young hip do -- much to the chagrin of many in golf's old school.

When asked to characterize the new wave of golfers, head pro Fecteau's voice becomes audibly tense. "It's being looked at as a sport where people can yell, drink beer, smoke cigars," he says. "That's not golf." A group of oldsters surrounding Fecteau back him up, muttering about vandalized greens and irreverent newcomers.

Return again to the "Mo Money Mo Problems" video. The person that Puffy beats with his winning putt is named "Fuzzy Badfeet," an obvious reference to golf pro Fuzzy Zoeller, who has been hit hard by criticism for his blatantly racist "jokes" about Tiger's celebrating his monumental Master's victory by eating collard greens, fried chicken, and watermelon.

The video also shows the clash from the other side. Badfeet is the old-school golfer stereotyped. He is wearing ugly, pitiful plaids, has obviously fake hair. All of the classic prejudices against white golfers as lame are reenforced.

So both sides feed off of each other. New-school golfers sense old-school golfers' unwelcoming, aggressive stares and react accordingly by claiming golf with aggression -- and perhaps, in doing so, justify those stares. Old-school golfers sense new schoolers' distaste for the old school's past elitism and get defensive -- and perhaps, in doing so, justify that distaste.

Hole #16 -- 18 and a quick departure

Hole #16 is long for a par-3, about 200 yards. I go driver and, given both the lake on my right and my penchant for hitting it inexplicably in that direction, I aim way left. And I hit it well. Mmn-mmn, that's nice, making that whipping sound with my swing that the good guys make. The ball appreciates it, too, going to the left of the fairway, then, as my patented slice takes over, at a smooth arc to the right. Finally it comes to rest just right of center, about four yards from the green.

Chipping I have no problem with -- I hit a nice looper that lands 10 feet around the other side of the cup, leaving me with my first-ever par putt. Standing over the ball, eyeing the slight break left, I feel all the weight of every golf championship ever won by a stroke on my shoulders. Take a breath, pull back, strike the ball, follow through . . . and the ball falls with that glorious clickety-click of plastic on tin. I give a whoop and pump my arms, adrenaline kicking into overdrive. I can see Dee at the tee of this hole bowing in a "we're not worthy." Oh it feels good.

On hole #18, I score a four-over-par seven, matching in sweet symmetry the seven that I got on the first hole, for a net improvement of nil. Little Josh, who continued to chuckle at every poor shot he saw me hit, beats me up pretty bad, as the final score goes, although I'm pretty sure I could take him in a bar fight.

I think that I would play again, although I'm not exactly sure why -- the discomfort I felt in the beginning of the day didn't much go away. I understand, certainly, how my friends and I fit in the whole scheme, too. We are, after all, those neo-hipsters -- none of us particularly poor, none of us so obviously ethnic.

I do remember, though, and lay claim to, some of the discreet (and not-so-discreet) prejudices of my youth, and perhaps they, at their heart, explain the discomfort that stayed with me throughout the day. As I said, I grew up right next to my city's muni course, but didn't use it. One of the reasons I didn't use it was because none of my friends did. It wasn't that none of my friends played golf. Some of them were, in fact, quite good.

But the ones who did play golf didn't play at the muni course -- they played at what they called "the club," the city's private country club. My family didn't belong to the club. Instead, we spent our summers at the big muni pool, and on the public courts. When I asked my mother why we didn't belong, she said simply, "They do not want us there." What she meant was, "They do not want us Jews there."

From that time on I have felt uncomfortable -- unwanted and even unworthy -- in the company of country clubbers, or anywhere that seems to be their stomping grounds. I may be a bit paranoid, and I am certainly and understandably defensive. I note snubs, notice them, and feel them acutely.

So I was uncomfortable at the golf course, noticed the old-school golfers looking at me and my friends dressed in our basketball jerseys and carrying our cheap clubs, noticed the people three groups behind us zipping about on the carts we'd been denied. I'm not sure my friends cared, or even noticed. But I did, and I understand from it why the golf world may not be the most welcoming place, despite its best efforts. The fact is I saw not one non-white person there -- not one -- and that can be a tough place to be, certainly a tough place to feel comfortable.

The game itself is appealing, although, jeez, I stink at it. Chris C. was right there with me, though. At one point, out of frustration, he even teed off with a wooden Louisville Slugger. It was his best drive of the day, in the air and straight as an arrow. Also, walking through the course with its fresh-cut grass, experiencing the peacefulness in between Chris's rants, and drinking beers while sporting with some of my friends was indeed enjoyable.

What's more, Dee and Pat invited me to their mahjongg game, every other Wednesday night at six. And I think I might take "the girls" up on it. My Wednesdays are generally pretty free. Besides, who knows what urban chic will make hip next -- I've heard Brooklyn's pretty down with the mahjongg ladies. Hey, I may be at the forefront of the next cool sport. And can't you just see the Puff Daddy slappin' down a few tiles in his next vid., a pack of 60-year-old Jewish babushkas dressed in black and gold rootin' him on?