Coach's Corner

That I'm willing to pay lots of money for the privilege of further ego destruction at a golf school should come as no surprise. Even occasional readers will have witnessed a familiar, repetitious masochistic streak in this space. That I somehow convinced my wife to enroll with me is, however, remarkable. Perhaps she's done something terribly wrong, and thinks this penance will atone for a grievous, secret sin. Maybe my slow, building sales pitch, focusing heavily on cute golf outfits -- outfits she could have -- were more effective than I'd envisioned.

At the last minute she almost backed out, realizing -- too late -- that this was coming right in the middle of the Tour de France. It's ridiculous that American TV networks, major and minor, allowed the invisible Outdoor Life Network to telecast 99.9% of the Tour to 100 American TV sets. It's worse than ridiculous: Lance Armstrong is a major national story, transcending, by far, the perimeters of the sport. If people like me -- with a bike hanging in the garage, unused and gathering spider webs for years -- are interested, you can bet the Tour isn't an event of interest to only a rabid cult of cyclists.

Anyway, she deduced that the chances of the Garden of the Gods Club carrying OLN were slim. Still, she wasn't weaseling out. She had a new Ping Hoofer bag, a new travel bag, cost-be-damned new outfits, and a 100%, nonrefundable, paid spot in the school. A sullen, vindictive camper isn't a happy camper. My off- and on-course life would've been miserable were it not for the fortuitous cable lineup at the motel. They had OLN.

Our school began, as it would everyday, at 8am with a casual breakfast. I'm nervous as the other students slowly filter in. Normally these schools see a random but representative cross section of golfers, reasonably distributed between husbands and wives, respectable golfers, dog-ass hacks such as myself, and a few novices, such as my wife. But as one grizzled, suntanned, middle-aged man after another filed in, it was obvious these guys were either all outstanding lawn service employees, rewarded by a grateful employer for many lawns well cut (not likely), or they spent substantial time on the golf course. I'd assured Kelly she wouldn't be the only beginner … or the only woman. It wasn't until Gayle (the last golfer to check in) arrived that I breathed easier. Gayle was indeed female and, if not a beginner, pretty close to it.

We're divided into two groups. The landscape maintenance crew are generally kept away from the other students. This is probably, it came to pass, a very good thing. They're a sub-group of golfin' Bubbas from Ft. Worth. Not one of them, as far as I can tell, has a real name. There's a J.T., a T.W., a Petey, and a T.J., with accents so hillbilly thick I can barely make out one word in 10, and I've lived in Texas for 35 years. I've read enough of Dan Jenkins to know to avoid these good-natured guys on a golf course. Complex betting games it would take a lifetime of study to understand -- involving serious money -- are active even on the practice tee. When I see one of our fellow students -- a sweet-faced young teaching pro from Northern California -- riding happily away for an after-school round with these boys, the expression concerning lambs and slaughter comes to mind. As he'd soon find out, the game he'd be playing had nothing to do with golf.

I hope this bucolic setting, at the base of Pikes Peak, will give Kelly the Bug. It probably won't happen, but I must give credit; she tried. By the final day her hands, unaccustomed to swinging a golf club 2,000 times a day, were a blistered mess. She had a meltdown on the first afternoon when Jay (her affable, infinitely positive instructor) took her and Gayle "out on the course." A harsh, universal golf lesson was learned: The difference between the driving range and the golf course. They may be only a few yards apart but it can seem like many miles. Kelly discovers this when the easy 9-irons she's hit so nicely on the practice tee turn into repeated shanks out on the golf course. Jay, ever patient, keeps putting down more balls for her to skull, shank, and top, advising, "toe up, toe up," after every miss. He doesn't see her go off into the woods to cry and pop valium.

On our last afternoon she has the quintessential golfing experience. I cringe as she approaches the practice area after another afternoon, on the course, with Jay. I've got my own problems out here. But her body language today is totally different. Her eyes blaze. She's very happy. "I hit two balls over that big lake, you know, the par 3?" Yes, I knew it well. I'd just put two new balls into the big lake. "I didn't see the first one, but Jay said I hit it over the green and out into the street. The next one I put right next to the flagthing." A rarity occurs: I'm speechless. Like a million golfers before her, she's forgotten all about the toe-up fiasco of yesterday. But even before I can react to this startling news, she's gone.

"Gotta go hon," she says, buzzing with energy and grabbing her putter. "Jay wants us back on the putting green."