Disclaimer: The following is about golf.
If I’ve learned anything from regaling tales from the golf course, is that it’s similar to showing off pictures of your cat: few people care and even fewer can feign interest (and no, your cat’s not different). If you find yourself in that latter group, that’s ok. My ego can handle it.
No reason to lie: my golf game sucks. This past weekend I got smoked by a 73 year old coming off rehab for a dislocated shoulder; a fact made known visually on the first tee. He showed me and seriously, it looked like he spent the last couple of his retirement years growing another head.
Under a 100+ degree afternoon Arizona sun, I started with a 214 yard drive and a 122 yard 8-iron to the green. He shanked his drive and likely ended with a triple bogey. On hole two, I parred the picturesque par three. He, uh, did not.
Then the aforementioned ass-kicking began.
Hole after hole, this man lasered his drives (mostly) down the middle and his approach shots were things of beauty. He struggled with his putting but barely. He was inches away from shaving five or six shots from his already impressive round.
Meanwhile I, uh, did not play as well. Fairways weren’t to be found and slicing shots was the norm. Oh sure, I had an occasional good hole but if there were a chainsaw in my bag instead of a 3-wood, the Red Course at Wigwam would have fewer trees.
Though I am reminded of hole 5: as published, a 171 yard par 3 though that day it played about 155 from the Club Tees to the flag. A high arching, near-perfect, 7-iron landed in the top-left corner of the green and, apparently, began to roll.
My ears perked up as the group in front of us started cheering with one even yelling “Get in the hole!” I could not see what was happening but the cheering soon faded.
The ball did not go into the hole but stopped five feet away. It was a near hole-in-one. The closest I have ever gotten. And before you ask, it was a 2-putt for a par.
So I guess it wasn’t all bad.
As for Rick? Yeah, let’s call him that. What a hell of a nice guy who loved to tell stories and talk about his life. He grew up in Indiana, played college hockey, was hired by Chicago Bears founder/head coach George Halas to work during a summertime training camp and after some nagging from his wife after retirement, got a part time job with the Arizona Coyotes.
Now he plays a lot of golf.
The wife says I should’ve gotten his phone number; perhaps set up a time to play again. Though I have to say, picking up guys on the golf course has never been my thing. Maybe that’s young man’s game. At my age, it’s the cart girl or bust.
But seriously, what a great guy to have been paired with. It was so much better than playing solo.
At the end of the day, the scorecard read 95. Two years ago, even last summer, I would have been happy with a 95 on the Red Course at Wigwam. It was only a week or so ago, I tied my all-time second best on this same Red Course with a 90. This day? Not so much. Though that is the beauty – and frustration – with golf: one day you have aspirations of joining the Senior PGA tour and the next you are being humbled by a retired 73-year old salesman with a bum shoulder.
