Is the Collar on That New Sweater a Little Tight, Maybe?

“Beats working,” I said, chirpily. And why not chirp? It was last Monday morning--a picture-perfect day--and I was about to fulfill a fantasy of playing in a golf tournament with real pros.

OK, it was only the pro-am to kick off this week’s festivities for the Toshiba Senior Classic at the Mesa Verde Country Club in Costa Mesa, but it meant our amateur foursome would play 18 holes with a touring pro.

Ten years ago that would have terrified me, but now my golf game is good enough that I figured I wouldn’t embarrass myself. So when co-workers Patti Tessier and April Jackson invited me to join their group for the pro-am, I eagerly accepted. I went out the day before and bought a nice maroon sweater to set off my blue shirt. If I was going to play with a pro, I might as well dress like one.

Like I said, that was Monday.

I’m writing this on Thursday afternoon, still wondering what happened. Still replaying the round. Worst of all, still questioning my manhood.

Men already know this, but do you women understand there are certain “guy” things? One measure of our worth is to perform well in--all right, you know about that one. Another one, equally important, is to perform well on the fields of athletic play, impervious to any pressure. A guy would rather be accused of cheating at poker than be called a choke.

Before the round, I felt great. Loose as a goose. Even as my practice shots on the driving range veered wildly off target, I wasn’t concerned. Just getting the kinks out.

April, Patti and I were joined by Sandi Karrer, who filled out our foursome. We were introduced to Marion Heck, a pro from Florida who used to be in the restaurant business. If you’re looking for golf partners, you want guys like Heck--affable, instantly approachable and completely non-threatening.

Our fivesome started on the ninth hole, a par 3 over water. Heck hit first; plop, onto the green. I was next and pulled out a six-iron, one of my most dependable clubs, and approached the tee box.

Exactly when I was stricken, I can’t say. Why did my legs suddenly feel tied together? What was that knot running through my shoulders? Why, when I stood over my teed-up ball, did it suddenly look as distant as Pluto?

I took the customary practice swing and knew I was in trouble. Where once my body had joints, it now had bolts. My new maroon sweater hung like chain mail.

Knowing I was hitting one of my easiest shots, I tried to stay calm. I swung (sort of) and the ball nose-dived into the pond. Usually, a bad first shot is enough to get the jitters out. Not on this glorious sun-splashed day. I teed up again, and my next shot headed low and way right. I should have yelled “Fore!” but didn’t, and it was so far off-target that it almost reduced by two the number of Toshiba volunteers patrolling the course.

It was just the start.

On our second hole, I pulled out my driver. Still tight, I swung mightily. My ball easily cleared a row of hedges, but, unfortunately, the hedges were only about 10 yards from the tee box. The ball scampered into some grass no more than 30 or 40 yards from the tee. From every treetop and swale on the course, the cry arose: “YOU’RE CHOKING!”

I was riding in the cart with Patti and after a couple more lousy holes, she motioned to the cardboard box with the complimentary turkey sandwich inside. “Have some lunch,’ she said, kindly. “Maybe that will help.”

At another point, April took me aside and said, “Just trust your swing. Have confidence in your game and know that you can play well.”

More nurturing playing partners a guy never had.

Nothing helped, though. I was hopelessly out of sync. About the fifth or sixth hole, I finally hit a good drive, and the group applauded. Please, God, I said to myself, let this day end . Please let a hawk swoop down and carry me off.

Eventually, the tightness subsided. But by then, I had long since lost my will to go on. I was forced to accept that nerves had gotten the better of me; that I wasn’t man enough to overcome the jitters.

That night, I did what any 45-year-old man does when seeking affirmation. I called my mommy.

“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” she said.

“Easy for you to say.”

“You can’t worry about it for the next six months.”

“Wanna bet?”

I’m still perplexed. The round shouldn’t have been the least bit nerve-racking. It wasn’t as though a gallery was watching us. I was playing with friends. Our pro was a peach of a guy. Everyone else played just fine.

Maybe I do need therapy, after all. Has anyone ever gone to a shrink, laid down on the couch and began with, “You see, there was this pro-am . . . “?

Maybe I can learn from the experience. Maybe it was just one of those days. Maybe it’s perfectly normal to be jumpy in that kind of setting.

At this point, I only know one thing for sure:

What a waste of a sweater.