Evian Blues

I've been pumped up for weeks, waiting for, anticipating The Evian, longing to be at Evian-les-Bains, dragging one of those snazzy green lawn chairs with the Evian logo embossed on it that spectators can purchase for a paltry 20 Euros at The Evian Shop behind me as followed Suzann Pettersen -- my secret girl-jock crush -- watching her roll putts, out-play the entire field, turn loose in Norwegian with a string of exhilarating profanity when her ball misbehaves, all the while nibbling delectable morsels from an oh-so-French picnic basket I purchased on my way through the gate to the tournament.  


I eventually accepted that I'm not going to The Evian this year and was going to have to settle for a bit less -- hours and hours of Golf Channel coverage of a round that's already been played, because golfers in France tee off when I'm going to bed.  

So I jumped out of bed this morning wild with anticipation, raced downstairs for the coffee pot and, with that life-giving first cup in my hands, settled in from of the television to take remote vicarious pleasure in Round 1.

What did I get?  Last years' 4th round, interspersed with video of the grounds crew squeegee-ing standing water off the greens.  And beyond, fairways curling down alpine slopes, calling out for chicks with sticks, who were nowhere to be seen.

I had a serious dilemma.  I'd intended to forego my regular Thursday round with the Star Fort Ladies Golf Association just to sit in front of the television and watch the 1st round unfold.  I'd worked until past 7pm last night to kick some other obligations out of the way so I could immerse myself in the next-best thing to being there.  So I'd cleared my day and had no obligations or commitments, and now I was left standing at the altar of the 5th Major.

I eventually realized that pouting wasn't going to change the French weather, pulled up my big girl panties, packed my lunch, and headed for the golf course.  I was late.  The Ladies had teed off.  I joined them on the 3rd hole, my only warm-up a little chipping while I waited for the three-some in the middle to putt out the 2nd hole.  Never mind.  At least I was on the golf course.  It wasn't in the French Alps, but it was golf.

Alma, checking our scores today

It took a while to get my head in my game -- my mind kept drifting off to Evian-les-Bains, to a late lunch on a bistro patio, while I munched the 1st quarter of my peanut butter sandwich between shots, some of them not especially memorable.  I rolled an especially long putt into the cup, and rather than savoring my own accomplishment drifted back to Evian and wondered if Pettersen would do the same tomorrow.  I watched one of Barb's dino-girl drives fly past mine and thought about how Hedwall will probably bring out her best power shots when she takes the tee tomorrow.  I enjoyed Marie's steady game yielding up par after par and reflected on Recari's game.  She's such a consistent, even golfer.  I had a lot of trouble transporting back from the French Alps to the South Carolina Up-Country.

I didn't win any money today, didn't even get close.  But about half-way through the round I started concentrating on where I was rather than where I wished to be, and my game did get better.  I enjoyed the swan, newly widowed, who's moved in to occupy one of the ponds at The Fort.  I enjoyed the companionship of Barb and Marie and Alma, and I enjoyed swinging my own sticks rather than watching others swing theirs.  That's the way it is, n'est ce pas?