Hearts cold as ice, flexible like steel, grim adherants to the rules, golf courses marshals are not to be trifled with. There is order to be maintained.

So goes the myth.

On the 17th green Friday, watching twosomes play through, I found myself standing next to a woman golf marshal. I knew this was going to be different because she came up to me, tweaked the bill of my baseball cap that said “Mt. Shasta” and asked if ever been there. She then talked to mountains she had climbed.

One comment led to another and I noticed so few golfers attracting a gallery. And yet, this woman marshal had her orders. Every time before a putt she had to hold both arms above her head, signalling silence.

She was signalled to no one and I brought that up.

“Actually you get to do a little aerobics here at the course,” I said. “Twenty-nine golfers, 29 puts, that’s 29 times you have to put your hands above your head. No, wait, some guys two-putt. So you probably put your hands uo in the air at least 40-50 times. That’s a good workout.”

She giggled, said nothing, as she was signalling to an invisible crowd to shut up.

“And I’m short anyway,” she said, claiming to be 5-foot-4.

So of course the next time she put up her hands I said softly, “Come on, put your hands higher. No one can see you. Come on, higher. Higher. Higher.”

She did. Got maybe another two inches elevation. And then I thanked her for being a good sport. Of all the golf tournaments I have covered I have never before thanked a marshal for being a good sport.