When playing in casual groups, I’ve found that it’s a matter of good manners to complement your partners’ well played shots: “Nice drive” for particularly long pokes; “Good shot” for well struck irons; “Nice par” whenever appropriate; “Good save”; “Good putt”; And so on.

On a 525 yard par five recently, I uncorked the longest drive I’ve hit in years—a 300-plus yarder. The shot was soaring and long and straight down the middle. The ball bounced a couple of times and rolled for what seemed like ages.

My playing partner, Mike, said “Nice drive.”

For my second, I briefly considered a three wood to get to the green in two, but decided to lay to the 100 mark. Again, I stuck it well and Mike muttered “Nice shot.”

The shot played too well, though, and left me with 60 yards to the green. The flag was set just a couple of yards from the front. That’s a tricky shot: a three-quarter wedge with the potential to either come up short or – catching it thin – fly over the green. Three things could happen, and two of them were bad. To play it safe, I took out a seven iron and played a bump-and-run to a foot from the hole.

“I never would have thought of that,” Mike said. “Now THAT was a golf shot.”

I thought about that line over the next few holes. There is, I think, a discernible difference between a good shot, and a Golf Shot. An average amateur like myself might hit many good shots over the course of a round, but only one or two “golf shots.”

The drive was not a Golf Shot. It was just a long blast down the fairway; no thought there, nor planning. Neither was the second a Golf Shot. It was well struck, but I had intended to get to the 100 yard mark, where I could hit a full gap wedge into the green. Instead, I hit it too hard and left myself with a tricky third.

The bump-and-run was not pretty. Bounding and bouncing up to the green, it had none of the graceful arc of a lob off a sixty degree wedge. But it was a Golf Shot. It got the ball to the hole efficiently, and minimized the risk of error. I had considered all of my options, and successfully executed. It was exactly the play called for at that moment.

So on that shot, Mike had given me the best complement of all: I had made a golf shot.

I think I was propositioned on the golf course yesterday. But at this moment, I’m still not sure.

To he honest, I have never been very good at picking up signals send by the female of the species. It may have something to do with the fact—that with my severe hearing loss—female voices are generally too high for me to hear; I miss inflections and tones. If we lived in an earlier time when women simply waited for a man to take action, I would not be married—or even have been on very many dates.  My high school girlfriend—we dated for three years and were voted “cutest couple” as seniors (all the cuteness was on her part)—used to laugh that she tried to get me to ask her out for three weeks before she gave up and invited me to a movie. Looking back, I think I can pinpoint a number of times when I completely missed various girls’ signals.

I met Mrs. Golfblogger when the ladies of the church arranged things so we had to sit next to each other at several church socials. Seventeen years later, I am quite convinced that she put them up to it. After a couple of those events, she asked me if I’d like to go play miniature golf with her. We were married six months later.

Yesterday was another one of those days when—hours after the incident—I slapped myself upside the head. Not that I have any interest—Mrs. Golfblogger is more than I probably deserve—but it would be nice to see a train coming before it hits me.

The course was very busy and—playing as a single—I was stuck behind several quartets of retired gentlemen. They were playing from the blues and were appallingly slow. The course was clearly too much for them. Behind me were four ladies of uncertain ages. One was a grey haired grandmother type, two perhaps were my age, and the fourth might have been in her twenties.

While waiting for the retired guys to clear out, the ladies caught up to me several times. The first time, I said “hi” to be polite and told them about the slow foursomes ahead—mostly so they wouldn’t think that I was the problem. They said not to worry about it and enjoy the round.

On the fourth—or was it the fifth or sixth—time they caught up to me, one of the middle-aged women got out of her cart and walked over to mine as I was parked next to the white tees (it was a cart-only course). She was definitely my age, fit, but not thin, handsome and wearing a pink shirt and khaki shorts.

“I think that cart is your lucky number,” she said.

I said something brilliant like “huh?”

She explained. “Its 69 ... I think that’s your lucky number.”

I looked over the side. The cart was indeed number 69. I chuckled; that was a funny observation.

“You’re alone,” she said. “I could ride with you if you like.”

“No thanks,” I said. “I like to play alone.”

“You don’t have to play alone,” she said.

I said something about that being ok, and headed up to the tee box, hit my shot and played on. They didn’t catch up to me again.

It was on the ride home, as I was mentally reviewing the round, that the scene replayed itself. And I’m still not sure if I was being propositioned, or if she was just bored and being funny.

I’ve recently discovered that I have a dark side to my personality: I’m a masochist.

While on vacation recently in Maryland, I chose to play the PB Dye Signature Course, recently voted the 26th toughest course in America by Golf Digest Magazine. And I scheduled a round there knowing full well that my driver and fairway woods haven’t been cooperating.

There was just something thrilling about the prospect of going up against one of America’s toughest courses. I particularly liked PB Dye’s comment on his course design: “I’m a golfer’s worst nightmare– a bulldozer operator with a scratch handicap and an Irish sense of humor.”

Just to make things tougher, I also decided to play from the blues instead of my usual whites. I was prepared for a massacre and expected to enjoy every moment. Mrs. Golfblogger pointed out that there’s something twisted about that.

But upon reflection, I find that my favorite rounds have been the ones where I’ve had to fight for par and bogey.

For me, a round isn’t fun unless I have to extricate myself from a couple of really tricky situations. Not that I actually try to get in those spots, mind you. That happens all on its own. But once there, I love the test.

My favorite shot in golf is not the nine iron from the middle of the fairway. My favorite is the out-of-the-rough-under-the-overhanging-branch-over-the bunker-run-it-up-to-the-green shot (I had one of those at the PB Dye. I popped the ball with a five wood and it worked perfectly).

With those shots, it’s all about imagination. Pulling the 120 club and hitting from the fairway on every par four: that’s repetitive and tedious. Studying the bag, trying to figure out which one and what kind of swing is going to do the job: that’s entertaining.

I also enjoy scrambling for par, or more often, bogey. I had a lot of those at the PB Dye. I wasn’t getting any distance with my driver, so my second shot often was a layup to a hundred yards, where I was reasonably certain I could hit my gap wedge into the green. Sometimes I’d take a long shot at the green with a wood and then have to putt, chip, pitch or lob my way on. Of course, that kind of play means that every putt is made under pressure. A one put is a par; two is bogey. Nothing dull about that.

Blind shots on an unknown course are another kind of thrill. The PB Dye had a lot of those. I’d study the yardage book, take aim at the recommended landmark and let it rip. Since I couldn’t see where ball landed, I’d rush forward, practically holding my breath all the while hoping that everything was okay.

It was a tough day and a lot of fun. And I didn’t do as poorly as I thought I might: my final score was a 93. Not bad for the first time through the twenty sixth toughest course in America.

I’d love to try another on that list. I admit it. I’m a golf masochist.

Mrs. Golfblogger is, I am sure, glad that my dark side applies only to my golf.

On the third hole of my round on Monday, my playing partner got the shanks.

I’d just met Tim—we were paired as walk-ons—but I’m certain that shanking is not his usual game. His first drive was a beauty, flying for two hundred fifty yards right down the middle. He hit an iron close and birdied. On the second, he missed the green, but got up and down for par.

Then off the third tee, Tim popped his drive straight up and right. For a moment, I was worried that he wouldn’t carry the women’s tee. Playing his second from just in front of the red markers, Tim took a mighty swing with a fairway wood—and the ball shot dead right into the woods.

He found the ball and managed to chip out. His next shot—with an iron—headed right back into the woods. After several minutes of looking, he declared it lost and dropped a new ball in the middle of the fairway.

I didn’t blame him. Sometimes you’ve just got to hit the reset button.

After much preparation and several practice swings, Tim took played another shot. Barely clearing the grass, the ball shot about fifty yards forward at a forty five degree angle to his line—right back toward the woods.

My goodness, I thought. He’s got the shanks.

I couldn’t watch. I didn’t want to watch. Shanks are the worst shots in golf, and I’m sure they’re communicable. If I watched any more, that swing would ingrain itself into my brain, and I would subconsciously start imitating it.

So as he continued to flail away toward the hole, I busied myself with my laser rangefinder, checking the distances to various trees along the fairway.

Hmm. Fifty yards to that one. Wow. Seventy yards to that one over there. Twenty yards difference. Who’d have thought it.

Tim in the meantime had lost another ball in the woods and was cursing a blue streak.

Forty five yards to the rock. Interesting.

Finally, he passed my ball and I hit my second. It was off-line, but not a shank. Thank heavens.

The rest of the round was a struggle for Tim. He’d hit a couple of good shots and then shank one. His wedges around the green were the worse; he finally gave up and started chipping with a putting motion

A couple of times, Tim asked me what I thought he was doing wrong. I lied and said I had no idea. In the first place, I have a strict policy of not giving advice on the course. And in the second, I really didn’t want to speak the word shank.

No sense calling in the demon by speaking its name.

Riding a cart is NOT faster than walking. Walking with a partner at a local course, we recently finished in two and a half hours.  And when walking a few days later with two guys in a cart, it was me waiting on them, not the other way around.

Every serious golfer knows that, for healthy people, walking is faster than riding. You take your shot and walk directly to your ball, and everyone else is doing the same. It’s a continuous flow. In a cart, you drive to your partner’s ball and wait while he hits, and then drive to your ball and he waits while you hit.

But shop pros and managers insist on perpetrating the lie that carts are faster. It has nothing to do with carts, though. It’s all about making some extra money.

The biggest evidence for this has always been the “mandatory carts” courses that will let you walk—IF you pay for the cart anyway.

Long Island Newsday reports latest course to fall victim to the “carts are faster than walking lie” is the Eisenhower Red on Long Island. Now I’ve never traveled to Long Island, and likely never will. But there was something in the article that caught my eye—the tacit admission that carts are about boosting revenues, not speeding play.

“County officials say making cart use mandatory will speed play—though some golfers disagree—and raise $100,000 to $150,000 in revenues.”

That’s the crux of it, isn’t it. Courses got rid of caddies because they ultimately were an expense. And they added carts as a revenue enhancer. I’d love to know what the profit margin is on a golf cart.