The Club

Chapter 5 - An American in Canberra

A week later I was sunning myself in the shelter of the pro shop, reading the latest article in “Clubber” magazine about my new appointment as Director of Junior Development at the Club which by next autumn would surely bring all sorts of riches and trophies to our sacred clubhouse. Um . . . yeah.  My quiet was interrupted by the sight of a beast not necessarily rare in Canberra but one to be looked at with suspicion and contempt, an American tourist. It is a fact that Australians despise everything American; not that we necessarily dislike the people but more just their brash ideas and brazen self-confidence. Ironically, in most Asian nations Australians are often referred to as “the Americans of the Southern Hemisphere”. We share the same frontier spirit as our American cousins. In the United States the west was won while in Australia the outback was tamed. The primary difference between the nations is the way in which we react to bravado. In America, men are raised to win and to the victor go the spoils. In Australia machismo is required at all times but it is never boastful. The phenomenon is referred to as the tall poppy. A man is never meant to raise his head to look down upon his vanquished foe. In Australia there is a self-regulating mechanism that cuts down the tall poppy to the same height as the rest of the field. One should never attract attention by making himself appear better than the rest of his mates. If he does, he opens himself up to a relentless stream of heckling referred to as “taking the piss out of someone”; every Australian man understands when he has called too much attention to himself and he must therefore endure the cruel teasing that must follow. In my experience Americans are immune to the ritual. They do not defer and the fact that someone cannot accept their braggadocio is…their problem.  

“Big Al Greene,” the man said in a voice as big as the outback. “I’ve just arrived in Canberra and my first order of business is to join a golf course. I’ve just started at the U.S. Consulate. I’m on a three-year posting and I’m planning to make enough money here on golf to pay for my plane ride home,” he boasted. “I play off 2; that’s plus 2, not minus 2. I’ve been the club champion for 10 years back in D.C. Haven’t lost a match play round in 4, so unless Greg Norman is a member you can pretty much pass that Club Champion trophy over right now,” Al bellowed.

“Greg is actually the Barista in our club house,” I countered.

“Well, maybe I’ll get a decent coffee in this country after all,” he concluded.

I’m thinking, yes, this guy’s going to be popular!

“Well, it’s social play all day today so why don’t you take a free round and see if the course is to your liking,” I said with reluctance.

“I’ll do that, Teddy. Thanks so much. The wife and I will take a spin and see ya’ll back here in a piece.”

I glared at my name tag on the counter with disdain when I heard a high-pitched voice cry out.

“Al, I need new shoes,” announced a tiny, grey-haired woman in stocking feet, with a pair of walking shoes thrust over her shoulder, one in each finger, though as she spoke, it wasn’t necessarily Al she was talking to. Her intense glare was fixed only on me.

“It’s not the shoes,” she said. “It’s definitely not the shoes. It has to be this city. Maybe it’s your floors. It could be the floors. It’s not the shoes. I danced 3 men to death at New Year’s in these shoes. It’s not the shoes.”