This morning, my barista son asked how my body feels. I showed him a pinky finger. Confused, he asked, “Does it hurt?”
I answered, “No, it’s the only part of me that doesn’t hurt!”
Yesterday, I played the most grueling, most exhaustive, most painstaking, the best and the equally the worst 18-hole game of my life. And that’s not just the reason why Andre asked how I felt this morning because it was my first-ever fairway game. Ever. At 61 years old. A fossil for a new sport.
My initiation to this sport came about when this brittle eggshell of a body finally gave up on playing basketball and tennis. When Tom Watson and Jack Niclaus finally called it quits, I entered the late, late show. So for starters: the usual driving range, Youtube sports academy and dozens of wannabe coaches namely my son and his cousins.
And yesterday was my inaugural. They said the course, compared with all that they’ve played in previously was unforgiving. Too many bunkers. Too many lakes. Too many mounds. When asked what I thought of it, I said, “Too much grass!”
The rules that my two brothers and five of our children and nephews made for me were forgiving, to say the least. They gave me one-grip gimmes and unlimited mulligans but even those I ran out of.
It was very tiring. My skin got burned under the steaming heat of the near-summer sun. I got dehydrated. My fingers blistered. At back nine, my back banged! So why freakin’ play? It’s just my form of relaxation. Let me be.
In life, it’s never too late to be late. I raise this cup to my golf buddies!
Cheers!
If you’ve been touched, amused, or entertained by this post, or it put a smile on your face, please favor me with a cup of coffee. I will continue writing.
Subscribe to receive an email whenever a new story is published.