“Members Only” sign, where you half expect a checkpoint with armed guards doing blueblood tests and asking if your mother
was in the DAR. The golf course itself is ranked among the finest in the New York area, and many of golf’s all-time greats
have played here over the years. It costs more than $50,000 to join—and, no, you can’t.
This would be my first golfing experience at a real country club, although I did make out with my girlfriend on a green during
a ninth-grade dance at our local club, and enjoyed that very much until the automatic sprinkler system came on. Not mine,
the golf course’s.
Preparing for the big day at Diane’s club, I must admit I was a bit nervous, about my golf, and about my manners (etiquette
does not come naturally to me), and, you know, just being
clean
enough and everything to pass muster. The club’s a bit stuffy. Old school. Once after several hours of drinking and dancing
at a wedding reception there, I removed my tuxedo jacket only to have a sentry rush over and instruct me to put it back on.
Later, however, another guest would remove his slacks on the dance floor, which certainly took some of the pressure off me.
What to wear? Would this be black tie optional golf? I frantically dig through several closets before finding my pair of white
golf shoes, which are fashioned from rich, Corinthian polyvinyl chloride, the ones someone gave to me absolutely free (and
at a cost to them of at least $9.95). But, are white golf shoes like … gay? I wondered. These are the kinds of things novices
just don’t know. I’d heard that loud pink and green plaid polyester pants are no longer the thing, so I threw on my newest
polo shirt, a light golfy sweater, and a pair of khakis—turning on all the bedroom lights to ensure my WASPy duds were spotless.
A member had lent me her club rule book to peruse before my visit: “Male golfers must wear shirts with collars at all times,”
it instructed, and at a place like this, that could mean even in the shower. So I definitely ruled out my “Let’s Go Met’s”
T-shirt (the one I’d worn to renew my vows). You’ve got to
blend
.
Club rules stated: “Golf shorts may be worn; however, jeans, brief shorts, or ‘cutoffs’ are not permitted.” That seemed semireasonable,
although some jeans look a hell of a lot better than some of the flammable golf slacks you see out on the course. “Brief shorts”
are underwear, aren’t they? And cutoffs I pretty much reserve for mowing the lawn and Saturday nights at the Ponderosa with
the missus. Some clubs don’t allow shorts at all.
The rules are even tougher on women: “Female golfers must wear golf dresses, skirts, culottes, slacks, or Bermuda length shorts.
Brief skirts, brief shorts, tank tops, or jeans of any description are NOT permitted.” The club really hates jeans—even if
they’re $300 Versaces. Some members recently wanted to loosen up and have a square dance, so they petitioned the board for
a denim exemption for one night only and were flatly refused. Do-si-do in your tux-e-do.
Too bad about no miniskirts on the golf course, but men say it is difficult to putt when you’re excited—mentally
or
physically (see the Rules of Golf under “Obstructions”). I’ve been told of officials at other clubs measuring a woman’s shorts
to find that they were more than an inch and a half above the knee, and ordering her to leave.
But there are even more pressing issues for me. Like, no clubs. I still don’t own any clubs. (Not to mention, no game. I still
don’t really have a golf game.)
My wife isn’t home so I decide I’ll use her clubs—appropriate, I think, for me to play with women’s clubs when playing against
women. I’m walking out the door when I notice that all but three clubs are still wrapped in bubble plastic because they’ve
never been used. Not good. I tear at the wrapped clubheads with my fingers and teeth, spitting
was in the DAR. The golf course itself is ranked among the finest in the New York area, and many of golf’s all-time greats
have played here over the years. It costs more than $50,000 to join—and, no, you can’t.
This would be my first golfing experience at a real country club, although I did make out with my girlfriend on a green during
a ninth-grade dance at our local club, and enjoyed that very much until the automatic sprinkler system came on. Not mine,
the golf course’s.
Preparing for the big day at Diane’s club, I must admit I was a bit nervous, about my golf, and about my manners (etiquette
does not come naturally to me), and, you know, just being
clean
enough and everything to pass muster. The club’s a bit stuffy. Old school. Once after several hours of drinking and dancing
at a wedding reception there, I removed my tuxedo jacket only to have a sentry rush over and instruct me to put it back on.
Later, however, another guest would remove his slacks on the dance floor, which certainly took some of the pressure off me.
What to wear? Would this be black tie optional golf? I frantically dig through several closets before finding my pair of white
golf shoes, which are fashioned from rich, Corinthian polyvinyl chloride, the ones someone gave to me absolutely free (and
at a cost to them of at least $9.95). But, are white golf shoes like … gay? I wondered. These are the kinds of things novices
just don’t know. I’d heard that loud pink and green plaid polyester pants are no longer the thing, so I threw on my newest
polo shirt, a light golfy sweater, and a pair of khakis—turning on all the bedroom lights to ensure my WASPy duds were spotless.
A member had lent me her club rule book to peruse before my visit: “Male golfers must wear shirts with collars at all times,”
it instructed, and at a place like this, that could mean even in the shower. So I definitely ruled out my “Let’s Go Met’s”
T-shirt (the one I’d worn to renew my vows). You’ve got to
blend
.
Club rules stated: “Golf shorts may be worn; however, jeans, brief shorts, or ‘cutoffs’ are not permitted.” That seemed semireasonable,
although some jeans look a hell of a lot better than some of the flammable golf slacks you see out on the course. “Brief shorts”
are underwear, aren’t they? And cutoffs I pretty much reserve for mowing the lawn and Saturday nights at the Ponderosa with
the missus. Some clubs don’t allow shorts at all.
The rules are even tougher on women: “Female golfers must wear golf dresses, skirts, culottes, slacks, or Bermuda length shorts.
Brief skirts, brief shorts, tank tops, or jeans of any description are NOT permitted.” The club really hates jeans—even if
they’re $300 Versaces. Some members recently wanted to loosen up and have a square dance, so they petitioned the board for
a denim exemption for one night only and were flatly refused. Do-si-do in your tux-e-do.
Too bad about no miniskirts on the golf course, but men say it is difficult to putt when you’re excited—mentally
or
physically (see the Rules of Golf under “Obstructions”). I’ve been told of officials at other clubs measuring a woman’s shorts
to find that they were more than an inch and a half above the knee, and ordering her to leave.
But there are even more pressing issues for me. Like, no clubs. I still don’t own any clubs. (Not to mention, no game. I still
don’t really have a golf game.)
My wife isn’t home so I decide I’ll use her clubs—appropriate, I think, for me to play with women’s clubs when playing against
women. I’m walking out the door when I notice that all but three clubs are still wrapped in bubble plastic because they’ve
never been used. Not good. I tear at the wrapped clubheads with my fingers and teeth, spitting
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