Token Chick (Hardback)

Chapter One

If you play golf, you probably remember how you got hooked. Maybe your dad took you to the driving range when you were young, or you got interested as an adult. For me it was almost accidental. It certainly wasn't something that I had even been thinking about pursuing. Golf came completely out of left field. Actually, it came from the living room. I was in my kitchen when my husband Brian walked in. Now I know many books start out with, "It was a bright, sunny day ...," but it was. Don't forget, I live in Southern California. It's usually a bright, sunny day. This particular day was even brighter and sunnier than normal-less smog than usual.

Brian walked into the kitchen on a mission. A mission any man would be on if he'd been born in a town called Falkirk that sits smack dab in the center of Scotland. A golf mission. Growing up in Scotland, Brian's dad introduced him to the game. It's practically a right of passage where he's from. Brian enjoyed playing, but as with many people, life happens and golf takes a back seat. A few decades would pass before Brian realized that golf should not take a back seat anymore. It should sit up front, with both of us. That's when he walked into the kitchen with the news. He wanted, correction, needed to play golf.

If I ever do a movie about a wife whose husband gets her hooked on golf, I already have the first page of my script.

If you're married, it's sometimes just easier to agree with your partner than not. Besides, what if he was right? What if the good Lord actually did bestow him with golf superpowers; after all, he is Scottish! I was definitely intrigued. I put on a tennis shirt (since it was the closest thing in my wardrobe to golf attire), and off we went.

We got in the car and headed to the only golf course we knew, Rancho Park Golf Club. It's a municipal course that's been in Los Angeles for over fifty years. It's a nice mixture of old meets new. A massive clubhouse, a course of old/fashioned design, and a modern two-tiered driving range. In its heyday, Rancho Park was a prime stop on the professional golf tour. If you visit Los Angeles, make sure you get in a round. I say "get in" because Rancho Park is infamous for the six-plus hours it usually takes to complete eighteen holes.

The course is situated in the heart of Century City right off the main drag. Across the street is 20th Century Fox Studio, where I'd spent four years filming Charlie's Angels. Every time I drove to work on Pico Boulevard, the same thing happened. The traffic light that led to the studio would turn red, and I'd glance to the left. I'd see golfers playing; it looked enjoyable, being outside and walking in the flesh air, but I never really thought about going in. The light would turn green, and I'd make a right turn into the studio and go to work. Who knew that one day I'd join their ranks and go from sitting at that red light to standing in the red tees? (Tee boxes have three areas to tee off from, red, white, and blue. Men usually use the blue and whites while token chicks use the reds.)

Driving to the course on that first day, I was definitely excited. Pico Boulevard was now the ultimate two/way street. The right had my adventures from Charlie's Angels, and the left, new adventures to begin at Rancho Park. The old 'hood would never be the same.

When we pulled into the parking lot, we saw wall-to-wall golfers-at the putting green, hanging outside the clubhouse, and zooming by in their carts. I looked over at Brian, and his eyes were spinning. He was home. We walked into the pro shop, and like many couples, Brian made a beeline for the latest golf clubs on display and I went directly to check out the clothes. Token chicks can never pass up an opportunity to slap the racks. Woops! Except this one! One look and I remembered why golf had never interested me. Today it's a different story. Golf clothes have style.

Some people feel that the biggest improvement in golf over the last twenty years has been technology: golf balls that fly forever and clubs that are more forgiving than a man of the cloth. However, if you ask me, the biggest improvements go in this order: clothes first, technology second. Thank goodness companies woke up and started designing hip golf clothes or else we'd still be wearing bright yellow polyester pants and pullover sweaters with little golfers sewn on them.

After a brief tour of the merchandise, we approached the man behind the counter, commonly known as the starter. He's the one who gets you on the course; he's the one who pairs you with strangers; he's the one who will always tell it like it is.

"First time out?"

Brian answered him, "Ahh, no. I'm Scottish." The starter actually looked somewhat impressed, as if he were thinking, Maybe this guy does play-he's from Scotland. Then Brian asked if they had rental sets for us to use.

"What's the matter, leave your clubs in Scotland?"

The starter can spot a beginner from a fairway away. He politely asked us, bordering on suggesting, bordering on insisting, "Would you both like to hit balls at the driving range and warm up before you get on the course?"

Brian looked at him like this made no sense. Warm up? He said, "I don't need to warm up. I'm Scottish. We just get out there and play."

"What about the lady?"

"Since she's married to a Scot, she follows many of our customs. Like not needing to warm up."

No warm-up? He gave us that classic OK-you-asked-for-it look. We took our clubs, bought golf balls (not nearly enough) and gloves. We got our cart and headed directly for the first tee.

Or so we thought. We actually headed for the tenth tee. Not reading the sign that says First Tee This Way is a very common mistake rookies make. The foursome on the tenth tee could tell we were beginners. The golf bags on our cart with the giant tags screaming "RENTAL" combined with driving up to the tenth tee was all they needed to see. With perfect synchronization, the moment we pulled up to their tee box, they lifted their arms, pointed, and said in unison, "The first tee is over there."

On the first tee, Brian tried to recall everything his father had taught him and proceeded with my first lesson. He showed me how to grip the club, how to stand, and how to swing. In the moments leading up to my first tee shot, I had no fear. I'd played all kinds of sports growing up in South Dakota and was a pretty fair athlete. I held my own against the neighborhood boys in softball and basketball, so I didn't give this a second thought.

I teed up my ball, took my stance, adjusted my grip, swung through, and missed the ball by a country mile. I actually heard the whiff sound as my club passed in front of me.

OK, regroup. Deep breath.

On my next swing, I was determined to hit the ball. I figured I just hadn't swung hard enough or fast enough on the first swing. That was why I missed it. I took my stance again, gripped the club even tighter, and swung so hard and fast that the momentum nearly threw me over. This was followed by three more rapid-fire swings, each one not even coming close. I was beginning to realize that golf is a hard game after all.

Regroup-again.

I put some thought into why I could not hit this ball. My mind was thinking one thing, and my body was doing another. My mind was thinking hit the ball as far as I can, and my body was just swinging with reckless abandon. I tried to put it into a mental perspective. "OK, it's just like T-ball, only the ball is at your feet and it's the size of a grape."

Then on the sixth swing, the ball finally got off the tee. Not by the swing I had just laid on it, but by the gust of wind I created from missing it again. Whhiiifff ...

Finally, Brian stepped in. He had to. He couldn't take it anymore. My Scottish knight made some quick adjustments to my stance and grip and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I took a deep breath, pulled the club back, and fired it through. Technically speaking, I crushed it.

I hit a rocket of a tee shot straight down the middle of the fairway. That feeling of striking the ball was like nothing I'd ever felt before. The sound it made, the feeling through my body, and the rush of watching the ball soar out there was almost too much to handle. Good thing it all happened in less than three seconds. As Brian walked back to his tee box, I looked at him now as much more than a husband. He was now the greatest golf teacher in the world!

Brian teed up and smashed his ball down the middle of the fairway too. I started wondering about the Scottish credo he was talking about in our kitchen. I thought, "Maybe he does have a God-given talent." Then I looked at my ball sitting in the middle of the fairway and thought, "Hey, maybe I do too!"

That was all I needed to be totally hooked. One shot. I was now golf's newest life member. There's a feeling about golf we all share. You can hit a hundred bad shots, but it only takes one good shot to bring you back again and again. I hit at least a hundred bad shots the remainder of the day, but I still had that first opening drive.

The wonderment I felt from my first good shot lasted only until I hit my second shot. That's when I cursed for the first time on a golf course. It's not in my nature to use foul language, but it was almost like a reflex. I hit a stinky shot and out came stinky words. I may not have looked like a golfer out there, but I sure was sounding like one.

The conversation in the car driving home was also new to us. Brian and I communicated like never before. We'd stop at a red light, gaze into one another's eyes, and say things like, "Can you believe that putt I made on sixteen!" "Great putt, how about my drive on the last hole!" It was puppy love for us. We were both smitten by the golf bug. We entered the house and immediately planned our next round. We were so exhilarated, it was as if we had just downed a Starbucks Venti drip.

On the way home after our second round, we made a pit stop and bought our first sets of golf clubs. On the way home from our third round, we made another pit stop and bought a condo on a golf course in Palm Springs. It was golf's equivalent of a one-two-three punch.

Rancho Park would also be the course where I would throw my very first club. Not from frustration; that would come later. I threw this club with class, very ladylike. How does one throw a club ladylike? Easy. It came from pure innocence.

Brian had shown me a tip that was in his new stack of golf magazines which were now invading my coffee table. This tip was about how much pressure you should apply to your grip when holding a golf club. After you start playing golf, you begin a never-ending quest for tips from every golf magazine that passes before your eyes. Each tip makes perfect sense-as long as you hit the ball well. The second you hit a shot poorly using the new tip, it's the first thing you blame.

This tip said that you should hold the club gently, as if you were holding a bird. It said to squeeze the club just enough to keep the bird from flying away, but not enough to hurt it. I was practicing at the driving range on the second tier when I decided to put the tip into action. I teed up a ball and gripped my driver as if I were holding a bird. Gently. I swung the club and sent my driver flying a hundred yards down the middle of the range! I guess I held it a little too gently.

Brian was to my right hitting balls, so he didn't actually see me launch my driver. He only saw the club sailing through the air. He turned around and looked at me. He knew. With a slight cock of his head and an already understanding smile, he asked, "How's it going, honey?"

My hands covering my face answered for me.

Brian asked, "That wasn't your driver, was it, honey?"

"Uh-huh. Now what am I going to do?"

There's nothing you can do in that situation. Word that someone had just flung her driver downrange spread faster than a bad movie review. Within seconds of my driver becoming an airborne projectile, a voice came over the PA system.

"Will everyone please stop hitting balls so a club can be retrieved? Thank you."

While someone fetched my club, I was treated to everyone else staring me down. Some glared, while others pointed. Most just stared. They were all thinking the same thing. "Thank goodness, that wasn't me."

During that summer, I played a lot of golf at Rancho Park. Sometimes in Hollywood the best jobs you get are by word of mouth; golf was going to be no different. Somebody who had seen me playing regularly at Rancho Park told somebody, and that somebody called me with a request: was I interested in playing in a pro-am at an LPGA tournament? Yeaaahhh ... I was paired with a Japanese player who did not speak a word of English, and I don't know if you know this about me, but I don't speak a word of Japanese. When it comes to golf though, it didn't matter. Golf was the language we spoke on the course. It's universal. Smiles, high fives, and the occasional fist pump are as real as any spoken words. I had such a great time participating in that first tournament. I enjoyed the atmosphere of competition. There were people in the galleries watching and interacting with me, someone was carrying my bag-it was just like I had seen on television, and now it was happening to me.

After that first event, I was invited to one pro-am after another. Requests came from everywhere. If I was at a tournament, I would be asked if I wanted to play in another one; some requests came through my agent, and some folks just tracked down my number and phoned me up at home.

Each person who called with a request had a similar comment. "We hear that you have a great time at the tournaments, and the fans really enjoy seeing you out there." That was amazing to hear. People were actually talking about me as a golfer. Not as a mom or as an actress, but as a golfer. It was something I had never thought about in my life before, but suddenly it was as important as everything else. One tournament director said "Cheryl, I hear you can always pull a par out of your pocket when the team needs one." I liked that comment the best of all. I am one of those people who tries to be there for my family, my friends, and, of course, for my pro-am team!

That fall the token chick would be officially born. I got the call from upstairs. Not that upstairs. It was an invitation to play in a pro-am event at a PGA tournament. I'd be playing alongside living sports legends, Fortune 500 executives, my favorite actors, and the best professional golfers in the world. Oh yeah, one more thing-this new world was also all men. Suddenly the pro-am invitations that were now coming my way had me as the only female celebrity participating. Every tournament was filled with celebrities, male celebrities. That's when I realized who I was, who I had become, my new identity. I was the token chick. She became my alter ego, almost like a superhero. "Have no fear, Token Chick is here! I'll make our team's birdie, and you buy the beer!"

What a long way I'd come from the days at Rancho Park. Armed with fourteen clubs, a good short game, and a sense of humor, the token chick had arrived.

(Continues...)