And that was just the start of the humiliation. The women's locker room takes up almost the entire top floor of the clubhouse and has a beautiful veranda overlooking the 18th green. The men's locker room is way in the back, behind the pro shop. It's the size of Gandhi's closet—one lousy urinal, no TV, no radio, one crummy golf painting on the wall, no shoeshine guy and no attendant.
"We're lucky we have this" said guest-card holder Bruce North. "Until three years ago all we had was an old shack. There weren't any showers or lockers. You just hung your clothes on a hook. We used to have to sneak beer in and keep it on ice."
Men aren't allowed on the driving range. Or at the member-guest events. Husbands and boyfriends are not allowed on the grounds without a member. And you can just guess how many times men ask to play through.
"They better not," said one of the club's 650 members. "Or they get the boot!"
Women are pigs.
Sandy was polite, but there was tension from the start. Our group included a seventysomething woman, and Sandy had to ask, in a whisper, if she'd mind playing with a you-know-what.
"A what?" the old lady yelled. Sandy whispered louder.
"A man?" the old lady creaked. Then she peeked around Sandy's elbow, glared at me, crinkled her nose and said, "I guess."
This joint makes Augusta seem like the ACLU.
Twice Sandy found my ball 50 yards behind where I was looking. "Typical male" she muttered. And she didn't seem to appreciate the little chipping tip I gave her. "Just like my husband," I think she grumbled.