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.  



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