TWO OLD FRIENDS ON THE BACK 9

 
This column originally appeared on Wicked Local.




I have done something this summer that I never thought I would do.  I have taken up golf.
Both approaching the age of 50, my old friend Pete and I decided that we should spend some quality time golfing, if for no other reason than it seems to be age-appropriate and Pete said he wanted to do something that would require him to wear a funny hat.  
He had recently golfed in Florida and encountered alligators on the course, aptly setting forth the challenge that golf is “the only sport where you are in danger of being eaten.”  I suggested that he stop practicing so that we could begin golfing on equal terms.   Pete reassured me, “There is no danger of me getting good,” claiming the majority of his golf experience consisted of watching Caddyshack.
My own experience golfing has been minimal.  Aside from occasional outings to Buncey’s Par 3 in West Bridgewater and the old Putt Putt Golf Course at the Westgate Mall in Brockton, I have always adhered to Rosie O’Donnell’s take on the game:  “Golf is not a sport.  It is men in ugly pants, walking.”  I was required to golf on a trip to Disney some years back with an ex-girlfriend’s dad, a serious skilled linksman who eventually declared I was the worst golfer he has ever played with – and I am certain the poor guy was probably trying to be nice. 
I drove to meet Pete to begin the first golf excursion in our lives that would require more than a putter.  I brought my set of clubs that I “inherited” after they were left behind by someone who vacated an apartment from my Somerville days but elected to leave these nifty golf clubs behind in the basement.  According to the tags on the bag my well-traveled clubs have 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.   
Pete showed up with his son, a member of his high school golf team, wisely bringing along a skilled yet subservient partner that could probably help us both with minimal embarrassment.  I asked Pete’s son where he had learned to play golf.  He said, “YouTube.”  How depressing.  If YouTube had been around when I was a kid I am positive that I would currently be Eddie Van Halen.  
Pete immediately had his son take note of my (as he observantly termed it) “antique” golf bag.  He also lambasted me for not wearing a collared shirt.  Indeed, I was in cargo shorts, sneakers, and a t-shirt.  Pete, on the other hand was wearing not only a collared shirt, but (impressively) actual shoes, and also the requisite ugly pants.  At least in golf appearance, I was already heavily outmatched.   
Pete also appeared to be far more experienced around the golf course than I was.  Upon checking in at the clubhouse, he thanked the woman over the counter using her first name.  Somewhat intimidated by his familiarity with the professional personnel at the course, I casually inquired as to how he knew the woman’s name.  “Name tag,” Pete said. 
Our first day out went well, at least by material standards.  Miraculously, neither of us managed to lose a single ball or break a tee which I at least considered an economic victory.  Despite some majestic drives in the general vicinity of the green and my ability to successfully muffle the volume of my curse words, 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 send it careening through a windmill. 
Pete and I have been out several times since, losing a multitude of balls and breaking countless tees.  We have been required at times to golf with various stragglers joining our group, no doubt people who deeply regretted ever leaving home after spending a few holes with us.  Pete and I have been practicing more and more, but somehow appear to be getting significantly worse each time we go out.  
Golf is maddening.  It seems that every specific component of the game that we attempt to perfect is heavily outweighed by failing to execute a part of the game that we thought we already had under control – but for some reason Pete and I keep returning to play and the frustrating cycle begins again.  
On the subject of golf, therefore, I have one piece of valuable advice:  If you happen to 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?
Jay Gillespie is a writer, comedian, musician, radio personality, and a local history teacher.  



Comments

Post a Comment

Popular Posts

Image
EAST BRIDGEWATER 1980 - REFLECTIONS ON BASEBALL This column originally appeared on Wicked Local. Each year as the weather becomes more spring-like, I am taken back to 1980 in East Bridgewater, a memorable end of the school year with an extremely competitive little league season.   Baseball was the highlight of our spring.   There was no internet.   There were no AirPods.   There wasn’t even such thing as a Space Invader yet, unless you were talking about the ones that arrived on the big-screen in Close Encounters of the Third Kind.     All players marched in the annual East Bridgewater Little League parade, and for the first time in what would become the norm, I opened the season at second base for the Lions Club team coached by twenty-one year old Terry Kingman.   Eamon (Terry’s little brother) was a fixture at shortstop.   Eamon Kingman and I were close friends, so we worked well together on and off the field like Alan Trammell and L...
Read more
Image
BROCKTON ACCORDING TO GILLESPIE This column originally appeared on Wicked Local                                           I decided to make a trip through Brockton after roughly thirty years away. Brockton is a city that, despite its questionable reputation in recent years, is one that I remember as being vibrant and lively when I was a kid. But the Brockton I found was sadly void of the energy that I remembered. Gone are the landmarks that once characterized Brockton East: Christo’s, the Brockton East Twin Cinema, Bradlees, Burger King, Friendly’s, Red Lobster, and even the old Jack-in-the-Box. They have been replaced by a handful of less than notable stores, a Home Depot, and an annex to Massasoit Community College.   The energetic vibe that once reverberated the downtown area of Brockton is also gone.   Main Street was once highlighted by thriving long-las...
Read more
Image
CANCER COMES UNEXPECTEDLY This column originally appeared on Wicked Local. My wife asked me if I would like to go to her doctor’s appointment with her.  Although I would be forced to take the morning off from work, it was something that was clearly important to her, so in a show of support I agreed to join her.   (My wife sometimes measures loyalty and commitment through a willingness to accompany her to medical appointments.) She was scheduled to get a routine mammogram, a relatively simple procedure that would hopefully leave us the rest of the day to have lunch and possibly do some light-hearted shopping.   I had already poured through roughly ten pages of my book, Bill Pennington’s expose on late Yankee icon Billy Martin, by the time she reached out to me via text message.  “So they just did another mammogram x-ray and now I wait to talk to the radiologist.  They said I could have them bring you in for the results but it’s a little weird ...
Read more