When Rick Met Nance: Golf Class Explained

Yesterday's mention of meeting my husband in a college golf class provoked some discussion in Comments, enough that I decided to pause my Listing and devote today's post to that story. I'm honestly shocked that in the twenty years this blog has existed it's not been a topic before.

I started my college career in 1977 at Lorain County Community College, working part time at City Bank as a teller. I'd take morning classes, rush home, change clothes, and be at work asap. I also worked Saturdays. Luckily, college tuition at LCCC was ten bucks per credit hour back then, and it was on the quarter system rather than semesters.

Anyway, I was required to take three phys ed classes towards my degree. I was deeply disappointed by this; I had thought I would escape gym class once I graduated high school, where I was a very lackadaisical participant in all things athletic. If there had been a bookathon or a reading olympics, I'd have been all over that. As I made out my freshman college schedule, I scoured the phys ed offerings for anything that met my stringent criteria:  no running, no clothes changing, and no sweating. I was pleased to find three that fit that perfectly--golf, bowling, and marksmanship. 

Another reason I chose golf was because my father was an avid enthusiast of the sport. He played often, disappearing for half the day at least once a week when the weather was decent. He only played nine holes usually, but he never just played the course. He wandered around collecting interesting sticks, acorns, leaves, abandoned bird's nests, and other things in nature that interested him. His golf bag was a mess of environmental samples.

Back to golf class. It was taught by a young, brisk woman named Miss Pugh who was probably in her early thirties, if that, and largely populated by eighteen-year old boys. I was one of about 5 girls in the class. Some days were spent in the classroom, reviewing rules and taking quizzes, but most of the time we were outside in a wide, grassy area practicing putting, driving, chipping, and pitching. Miss Pugh would put us in teams of two or three, give us clubs and tees and plastic balls, and set up an area for us to aim for. 

I hated this part because I realized early on that I hated golf. A lot. It felt awkward and unnatural. And I sucked at it. I was a terrific and accurate putter, but the rest--not so much. I also hated that some of the boys in the class took these outdoor times as opportunities to Play Expert. And get very physical. They'd get behind me, put their hands over mine, and act like they were helping me with my grip and swing. I was quick to put a stop to that.

One day, I was put on a team with Rick and a boy named John. John was very cute (think Benson Boone and Timothee Chalamet) and bougie. We were outside to practice our chipping. All three of us were teeing up and getting ready to address the ball, and John came over to help me. He got behind me and I immediately told him I was fine and could do it myself while maneuvering away from him. I rolled my eyes at Rick and we all chipped. Well, at least John and Rick did. I stood there and watched my ball roll off the tee about six inches, probably from the draft of air my lousy swing produced. "Wow," Rick said, his voice clear and deadpan. "If that was me, I'd pick it up and hit it again."

I was already embarrassed, and now I was furious. Who did this jerk think he was, anyway? I turned around, looked right at him, and said, "And if I were you, I'd go straight to hell."

And thus began our neverending love story, Dear Readers. It continued with Rick pelting John with golf balls, a sort-of marriage proposal another time soon after and me accepting, and Rick getting an A in the class and me getting a C. I've never played golf, but he played many rounds with my father. We've been together 48 years, married 44. Astonishing, isn't it?

 

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