POSTCARDS FROM EUROPE- HOLLAND

THE FOURTEENTH AT COLT"S EINDHOVEN

ABN AMRO Ladies Open, Eindhoven Golf , the Netherlands
June 1st – 7th, 2009

As one who frequently enters and exits other’s lives visiting in brief, sporadic spells, I hope you can understand my reluctance to say good-bye. There are those who make such a point in saying it, as if it mattered a great deal to the upkeep of one’s everlasting soul. There are those of us who find it slightly trivial. Good-bye, a final word, the finale. Despite my inclinations here it is not appropriate for me to drift away unnotice, Hod. We all must do our part when it is warranted.

Perhaps to understand why my thoughts are pushing me towards this end you have to first understand the beginning. The ABN AMRO Ladies Open, once the KLM Ladies Open, was my first event as a professional…my first event ever as a professional. When I stepped foot in the clubhouse in June of 2006, they didn’t know me from a hole in the ground. I was scared to my wits ends and intimidated by the entire situation. If you or I could have seen my face then, it would have been white with fear and my eyes wide with anticipation. But the people seemed to accept me and the golf course was a comfort. The tree-lined, narrow fairways which placed a premium on strategy reminded me of home and felt familiar underfoot. By sheer, complete, absolute, and unreasoned luck, I found home with a local family willing to put up with a player for the week. At first I took on the role of the listener, politely interjecting where I thought appropriate, but our conversations broke down my inhibitions and strengthened my courage. Just myself, Reynier, and Caroline sitting around the blond-wood kitchen table talking. I was enthralled by the scope of this man’s interests; a sponge that no spill could over saturate. There was nothing that I did not view with a child’s enthusiasm: eating bread with knife and fork, the doll house cups of coffee made strong and bitter, the low ceilings and creaky antique hinges. The Netherlands was my favorite place on Earth.

THE FADE TEE SHOT ON #2

Eindhovensche Golf is also my favorite golf course on tour. The Harry Colt design challenges players to shape the ball off the tee around dog-legs and corners. The ones who succeed may be those who opt to play strategically rather than blast away with driver as there are more than a few fairway bunkers to keep you honest. You will need both a fade and a draw to succeed here. Conveniently for me, I normally hit a fade with a driver but a draw with my 3-wood. The greens are small but generally flat and it takes a bunch of birdies to make it up the leaderboard. Originally developed by the Phillip’s (electronics company) family it has the feel of prestige without the pompousness of the privileged. Fairways are lined with mature pines and the rough, a wispy heather unless it has been a wet spring. The course is very pleasant to walk with greens and tees being located very near one another. Yet despite the closeness of the holes, it is not unusual to find yourself feeling like your group is the only one on the course. The peacefulness is as close to golfing heaven as I have been.

THE SIXTEENTH

The golf course proved to be my crown achievement and my successes there were many. If only I could wield a brush, the vividness with which I could paint its colors would be telling. The feelings, the emotion, the tightness in my belly, all played out here at Eindhovensche Golf Club. In my first round that first fateful year, which if you’re paying attention means my first round as a professional, I shot 67. It is noteworthy because it is also my best round as a professional. The first time I saw my name on the leaderboard, misspelled Tereby as is often the case, it was here. Beginner’s luck I told myself.

Yet the second year’s trials were just as productive, a top-10 finish, and my name spelled correctly on the leaderboard for much of the back nine on Sunday. At the time it felt like I was walking in quicksand. When I knocked my last putt in on the 18th, it felt like I blinked and it was gone. A picture, a proud me, a proud set of Dutch friends, and the look of delight plastered on each of our faces. After that year I practiced so many 3-woods picturing my fading tee shot hit with an un-trusty driver land straight in that bush on the 18th, I wore out my 3-wood and had to get a new one.

It has been four years that I’ve landed here in the same town with the same smiling faces that first greeted me. I have learned just as much here as I have in high school. Perhaps less of the facts and figures found in textbooks but more about the connections and interactions of the world. As a freshman I was too oblivious to know what I was doing. As a sophomore I was just glad not to be a freshman, still eager but slighted more experienced. Junior year and my over-confidence got the better of me. And senior year, I was content but realizing that not everyone is going to be the Prom Queen, Captain of the Varsity Soccer Team, get accepted to Yale, and still bake warm, chewy chocolate chip cookies at home with Mom on the weekends. There are some people who just have to be average, statistically this is so, and maybe the transition from big fish in a small pond to big fish in a big pond isn’t as easy as I once thought it to be. Of this I am not bitter, nor am I defeated. Maybe I’m dead wrong too.

In all the melancholy and dramatic tones of the past, there was a bright spot as my unfortunate play that left me with an opportunity. When one door closes, another one opens so they say. Reynier tells me that early Sunday mornings are reserved for the flea markets. The amusing accounts he gave describing the markets intrigued me enough to accompany him, even waking before my alarm went off at 4:30 am, before our departure to Belgium. They had become extinct creatures in the Netherlands but the Belgians, he explained, were 20 years behind our times. For him this was not a bad thing.

In my mind I had imagined an expansive hay field cut down by a lone farmer to make way for a mass of makeshift storefronts, tables, and cars. A few rickety carts would also dot the landscape. It was not. Our destination was an emptied parking lot between a big-box, impersonal supermarket and a McDonald’s. The initial disappointment did not last long as off he was scurrying from stand to stand, quickly surveying it for any “important” pieces before his competitors got there and scooped them up. I did not bother to keep pace, but strolled with my hands tucked deep in my pockets, my head bobbing from side to side, a dazed, sleep-deprived grin across my face. It was cold that morning and I wish I had brought my knit cap along. My watch read 6:30 am, the morning mist was still rising. I feared that Reynier was disappointed that we had not gotten there sooner and I wondered why? Half of the caravans and cars pulled into rows were still unpacking their goods. An assortment of furniture, household products, trinkets, antiques, and collector’s items were up for sale. Blue china, polished silverware, dusty leather-bound books, all laid out on tabletops and rugs spread out over the pavement. It seemed a pity that an exquisitely hand-carved mantel, not mantel piece but the entire mantel, contraband from an extinct French Chateau, had not a better home than the measured parking space lines on the pavement. When questioned the seller said its price was €4,000. Very few of the pieces were tagged with neon price stickers. Language and accent probably had much to do with the item’s worth.

On the return trip we made a pit stop in the heart of Brussels to visit the Moroccan marketplace which derives its nickname from the ethnicity of the sellers and not the origin of the goods. Each day in this cobblestone square, boxes and trunks are dragged across the city streets to set up shop. The quality of the goods was not as impressive. After making an inquisitive walk past the stalls, we settled into a corner of a smoky coffee shop for a café au lait. Gruff locals slurped soup wearing the same clothes they had on their backs since they were born, only in slightly better condition. They looked simple but interesting. I doubt they had much care for our modern trifles and concerns. The glass mug containing my coffee, fitted with a metal handle that was anchored around its base, was one of the most interesting pieces I had seen that day. We inquired if a set of these may be bought but no, the shopkeeper said, they are not for sale. In all our take for the day was a small oil painting, a 19th century crystal glass, a lapel pin, and a miniature gold pencil; the final price tag approximately €40.

By the evening it was time to go. The rain fell gently while I raced to grab my golf bag, throw it in its travel cover, and return my locker key. The setting seemed an appropriate ending to an unforgettable tale. I won’t forget you; I couldn’t even if I tried.