Today marks the start of The 82nd Masters, probably the only time of the year that I really care about golf. I would like to see Tiger do well, but the beauty of the course is what really strikes me. I was never much of a golfer, and certainly not ready to add it to my list of retirement activities. A friend recently had a booth at a local antique golf show, so I dropped by to say hello and have lunch overlooking the 18th green. My wife and I also did lunch a few years ago on the patio at Pebble Beach, just because of its fame.  Lunch then has become the closest I’ve gotten to the golf course in years, with maybe the exception of a couple of trips to Top Golf. My clubs sit in the corner of the garage gathering cobwebs and each year get closer to being antique.

My dad was left-handed, so I learned to swing a golf club the wrong way. I also have a scar on the top of my head after a childhood buddy hit me with his driver while we were out playing in his back yard. It was like someone cracked an egg on top of my head, as the blood slowly oozed from the wound, but after a couple of stitches I was ready for another round. Despite these early set-backs, I did get plenty of chances to play golf while I was in Junior High. By that time, dad had gotten a work promotion that included a country club membership. During the summers, it became my job to spend the monthly food and beverage minimum, since he rarely used had time to use the facilities himself. My mom would drop me off in the morning and pick me up late in the afternoon, so I often had time for 36 holes every day. I also had an agreement with my dad that if I could break 100 on this difficult pro course, he would buy me a new set of clubs. I got the new clubs, but in the process also grew discouraged with my progress. 

You would have thought that a hit to the head would have driven some sense into me. However, golf kept finding a way into my life.  I’ve bought and sold several sets of clubs, including a shrewd trade for Coors Beer and steaks. (See Post #43). Since I never seemed to get any better playing every day, I certainly never improved playing once or twice a year. In fact, playing became embarrassing to the point where I began to hate the game. I do enjoy watching others play, so occasionally I will follow a tournament, especially The Masters. The fact that Jack Nicholas’ grandson hit a hole-in-one yesterday proves once again that athleticism is genetic, so I blame my failures on my father. Thanks Dad!