"I see why you carry so many clubs," said Marge.
The next ball I purposely sliced so there would be no nonsense about its diving into the water. It went far into the woods behind the green. This is like a tropical jungle, and I left Marge on the green while I went trekking into the bush after it. It took me 15 minutes to find the ball and three shots or so to get it on the green. Finally I appeared, however, scratched, winded and perspiring.
Marge lucked in her eight-footer for a birdie, and I took 4 putts, partly because of my concern over her putting form and partly because of simple exhaustion. I got a 10 for the hole, but was good sport enough to congratulate her.
"Keep this up and you'll break the course record," I told her.
"So will you," she said.
I won't go into the other 16 holes. But all in all it was a miserable afternoon. I don't know whether she finished with the best score or I did; in a playing lesson you're not so concerned with score. I know, though, that by concentrating on her game rather than my own and purposely holding back on some of my best shots, I played inferior golf, despite some superb recoveries.
As to the question of who would have won in match play had we both been playing for blood, it is one that will probably never be settled—like who was the better tennis player, Pancho Gonzales or Suzanne Lenglen; the better fighter, Stanley Ketchel or Roland LaStarza.