I have the privilege, pleasure and responsibility of living in a part of this great nation where well in excess of one million of my fellow human beings of all races, nationalities, creeds, occupations, etc., vacation annually.
On the golf course, I have heard some usually mild-mannered, even-tempered golf professionals identify certain members of this million-plus hoard as “Tourons”, a creative combining of “tourist” and the “M” word (rhymes with Boron). The title is almost always followed by an exclamation point or preceded by the Creator’s common name coupled with a word that rhymes with “Spam.”
Of course, when I first heard these purveyors of good sportsmanship and impeccable manners use such language, I was shocked. Granted, when these “visitors” and “guests” jam our local boulevards, causing my older car to overheat, I often question their parentage, intellectual capacity and associate them with one particular part of their anatomy. But on the golf course, one of the last bastions of decorum? By golf professionals? How else would these pros make their living if it wasn’t for the tourons…er …visitors?
I mentioned this to my pro just moments before my bride and I were ready to tee off. My pro, generous to a fault, had arranged a tee time for me within minutes of my calling and hinting that “It-was-my-birth day-and-the-kids-were-in-school-and-I-have-to-play-now pleeeeeeease!”
“It happens in the heat of the moment,” my pro explained, his face clouding with painful memories. “It happens when they run their carts up onto the green or into a lagoon. When the two-balls-off-the-first-tee tradition turns into six balls off the first, five off the second, four off the third. It happens when they take a wrong tum and end up playing the same hole twice. It happens when the ranger asks if they mind letting a foursome play through and they ask what ‘play through’ means. It happens when they lay down in the fairway, when they leave sand bunkers looking like battlefields.”
I understand, I said quietly, trying to soothe him.
My pro, my wife and I waited quietly for the group ahead of us to tee off. Judging from their outfits and the way their cart was parked diagonally across the path, I guessed they were “visitors.”
“In fact, most of them are good people,” my pro continued without taking a breath. “They’ve worked an entire year, often at a job they don’t particularly love, to afford a week away from the burden of their daily responsibilities. They deserve a good time. And they have chosen to have it here. That’s a real compliment to us. But some of them seem to leave their brain on the dining-room table when they go on vacation.”
This soliloquy represented the largest number of words I had ever heard him speak at one time.
The foursome was ready to tee off. A mighty swing by the first player hurled the ball far right, into the trees. The second rocketed just past the ladies’ tee. The third and fourth went deep left. Very deep. I was becoming impatient. The children would be in grad school by the time we finished this round.
My pro ambled up to the tee, shook hands with the players and said something I couldn’t hear. They all turned and smiled at us with an unmistakable note of disdain. My pro ambled back over to our cart.
“You can play though,” he said, his hand resting on the cart.
How’d you do it? I asked.
“I told them you were a tourist and they would be safer if you were in front of them.”
My pro has class.
Copyright 2024 Paul deVere
Originally published in Celebration Hilton Head, 1990
From “I Golf, Therefore I Am”, by Paul deVere