Fence Jump at Ladies Masters

Just recently a meeting was held for all Blank writers to discuss article concepts. I raised my hand and suggested that perhaps the sporting scene on the Gold Coast could use a cultural kick. There are the Suns, the Titans, the Blue-Tongues (yes, we have a professional ice-hockey team) and just recently, for the hell of it, a bunch of professional golfers showed up at Royal Pines. Professional women golfers. Can I get a woop woop!

Thursday is the day of the week in which professional golf events take off. The first of four days. A huge chunk of players will be culled after day two so there isn’t much time to mess around in sand bunkers or water traps. Two chances only to walk the links, set your place for the final days of competition and look pretty for the cameras. No, just kidding. These ladies are professional. Ruthless f*cking competitors. I smiled at one and her returned glare caused me to pee a little.

Getting in to the Masters was easily the highlight. We had driven to the event hoping that a kind usher would direct us to spectator parking. When we found said usher, she pointed back at Metricon stadium (miles away on the horizon) and told us we could find plenty of parking there. A shuttle bus would drive us up to the ticket booth and we could formally enter for a day of muffled gasps and tempered clapping.

My partner in crime agreed this was a shithouse idea so we just pulled over on to the side of the highway, grabbed our silly hats and darted across quickly to the course. It was a ridiculously long walk to the ticket booths so we just muscled on to the back nine. A few officials seemed to have their eye on us but we were the two roughest looking lads for miles. Nobody was going to mess with us today. This moment helped ease the pain of my nil-record for jumping music festivals. We were in!

Finding a group of women to lurk behind is the key to spectatorship at these events. Just stand a few metres back behind some trees and stare. This is not an exaggeration. It’s awesome. Especially once I pulled out the camera to get some happy snaps. I just wish I had worn a trench coat.

Golf is a tremendously difficult game. I have played socially and competitively for a handful of years. At first the standard seemed average but nobody lost their temper or hit a ball two hundred metres in the wrong direction. A typical social golfer’s day out involves both, all the time. So I cheered with praise and tried to egg on the crowd.

Most difficult was fighting the constant urge to streak. Ninety percent of the officials and guards were seventy year old women. I wanted to make them chase me. To feel wanted. I begged my partner in crime to take me home before I became tomorrow’s headline.

So Professional Women’s Golf and lurking after attractive strangers have both been crossed from the bucket list. I am actually excited for the next golfing calendar event and hope to take a busload of Blank enthusiasts with me. Peace.

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