TWO OLD FRIENDS ON THE BACK NINE

I did something several summers ago that I thought I would never do. I decided to take up golf.

Both entering our fifties at the time, my old friend Pete and I decided that we should spend some quality time on the golf course. It seemed to be age-appropriate and Pete said he wanted to do something that would give him a reason to wear a funny hat. He had recently golfed in Florida where he said there were alligators on the course, determining that golf is “the only sport where you are in danger of being eaten.” I told him that he needed to stop practicing so that we could begin golfing on equally bad terms. Pete reassured me, “There is no danger of me becoming good,” claiming that most of his golf experience consisted of watching Caddyshack.

My own experience golfing has been minimal. I have always adhered to Rosie O’Donnell’s take on the game: “Golf is not a sport. It’s men in ugly pants walking.” Aside from occasional trips to Buncey’s Par 3 in West Bridgewater, Massachusetts and the old Putt Putt Golf Course in nearby Brockton, I have rarely picked up a golf club since both of these establishments closed their doors for good decades ago. I was once required to play golf during a trip to Disney World years ago with a serious golfer who said after spending time with me on the course that I was the worst golfer he has ever played with, and I am certain that he was being nice at the time.

I met up with Pete to begin the first golf excursion of our lives that would require more than just a putter or a nine iron. I brought a nifty set of clubs along with me that I had commandeered after they were left behind by a former tenant who had vacated a Somerville triple-decker where I was living some years back. According to the prominent tags on the golf bag my clubs had played at Desert Springs, the Firestone Country Club in Ohio, and Kapalua in Hawaii, only I was not with them on any of these trips. Notwithstanding, I felt that carrying this decorated golf bag gave me a certain amount of respect and credibility while I was waiting in the parking lot. Pete showed up with his son who was a member of his high school golf team, a skilled yet humble golfer who I was counting on to teach us some of the finer points of the game. He did know important aspects of the sport like which club to use in what situation and when to pretend that he wasn’t with us when crossing paths with actual golfers. At one point I asked Pete’s son how he had become such a great golfer. “YouTube,” he said, rendering me silent.

Pete humorously called attention to what he referred to as my antique golf bag, pointing out that my clubs had probably been state-of-the-art equipment back in the 1990s, causing me to realize that my clubs had most likely been left in that Somerville basement for good reason. He also informed me that I was not wearing a collared shirt. I was wearing cargo shorts, sneakers, and a t-shirt, close to the same outfit I had always worn to Buncey’s Par 3 or to play miniature golf years before. On another day, I made the mistake of showing up to play wearing jeans forcing me to negotiate my way onto an empty golf course by essentially bribing the pro shop attendant with a $50 dollar bill. Pete on the other hand was wearing not only a collared shirt, but actual shoes, and a pair of khaki pants. In golf appearance, I was already overmatched. Along with having an understanding of proper golf attire, Pete was also more experienced with the personnel at this golf course. When we checked in at the pro shop, he thanked the woman at the counter politely using her first name. I could only assume that Pete had been golfing at this course more than he had let on since he was clearly on a first name basis with the woman behind the counter. I asked him how he knew the woman’s name, expecting him to reveal that he actually golfs at this course regularly. “Name tag,” Pete said.

Our first day on the golf course went well. Miraculously, neither of us managed to lose a single ball or break a tee which I considered to be at least an economic victory. Despite some majestic drives in the general vicinity of the green and my ability to successfully muffle the volume of my cursing, it quickly became apparent that my game needed serious work on any golf course where I was not going to be required to hit the ball into a clown’s mouth or aim for a windmill.

Pete and I went out several times that summer losing a multitude of balls and breaking countless tees. We were required at times to golf with various stragglers joining us, no doubt people who deeply regretted ever leaving home after spending a few holes with us as we made references to Larry ‘Bud’ Melman from Late Night with David Letterman, the 1973 Gran Torino that Pete once owned, and sometimes citing miscellaneous song lyrics from 1982. Pete and I continued to practice, but somehow appeared to get even worse each time we went out.

The bottom line is, golf is maddening. Every specific component of the game that we attempted to perfect was always outweighed by another part of the game that we thought we had already mastered. Perhaps Robin Williams was right. Golf could only have been invented by someone under the influence, a game that requires you to hit a tiny ball into a gopher hole several hundred yards away; a hole that is strategically placed with things in the way like trees and bushes and high grass using a club that is reminiscent of a tire iron. And you are expected to do this not once, but 18 times.

Pete and I returned to play on several occasions that summer, although we came to fully understand our golf limitations. Eventually, Pete gave up on golf and moved to Florida taking up pickleball instead, a sport that has yet to have had a single player consumed by a reptile, although I hear that some people are still holding out hope.

On the subject of golf, I have one final piece of advice: If you ever see Pete and I on the golf course try not to play behind us. And could I possibly borrow a pair of your ugly pants?

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