Wiffle golf

Living in a golf club community, everything revolves around that little white ball.  This season I decided to find out what all the hoopla was about.  Having hubby teach me the fine art of golfing was not an option.  He corrects my driving, cooking, cleaning and social skills already, so I don't want him to overextend himself.

When I saw they were offering a golf class at the local community college, I was the first student to sign up.  Not knowing what to expect, I loaded up my son's old golf clubs, put on my collared shirt and went to class.  Only 3 other students were there, 2 ladies and a man.  Our teacher took us out to the field next to the school and got out a bag of small wiffle balls.

The field by the school

For the past 5 lessons we have been practicing our grip, stance and swing using the #7 club.  The man is long gone and one of the ladies had to have her pace maker replaced so she is reduced to spectator.  Our teacher is one of the most patient men I have ever met.  He doesn't get tired of repeating the same instructions to us and remarks how well we are improving.

Hubby has mown the field across the street from the house and I have my own collection of wiffle balls that I take out every few days and whack around.

Wiffle ball

Next week we are meeting at the driving range where we are going to practice with real golf balls and a variety of clubs.  On Friday there is a ladies beginner golf class down at the club house that I plan to attend.  Good-bye wiffle ball, hello trouble!

Fore!