Your Golf Bud
by Bud Key, Mid-Atlantic Director, TeeTime Golf Pass
I own the golf bag from hell. It’s an enormous, overstuffed, full-grain leather TOUR-style staff bag, the size of a ’72 Lincoln Continental and weighing a metric ton. This monstrosity was my prize for winning a closest-to-the-pin contest in 1988, the same year I got married, and it was the catalyst for our first marital spat.
I insisted on showcasing the colossal bag in the dead center of our tiny 600-square-foot studio condo, convinced it had more curb appeal than our meager second-hand furniture. My wife finally caved, but only on the condition I let her place a framed photo of her parents on the bedside nightstand. Having my in-laws’ watchful eyes actually saved us a fortune on birth control in those early years.
Since then, the staff bag has faithfully followed us through five house moves. I can’t pinpoint the exact year I stopped using it, but the reasons are unforgettable:
Transportation Trauma: Simply getting it to the course required me to buy a beat-up used Volvo station wagon. It refused to fit into the trunk or backseat of our Ford Tempo.
Medical Emergency: Playing solo one afternoon, my rental cart died mid-round, forcing me to fireman’s carry the bag a mile-and-a-half back to the pro shop. I wore a back brace for six months afterward.
The Humiliation: Worst of all was the shame. Showing up with a bag bigger than Al Czervik’s in Caddyshack led to inevitable chiding: “You must be a damn good golfer to have a bag like that.” I would then proceed, like clockwork, to hook or slice my first tee shot deep into the woods.
Eventually, I abandoned the cello-sized carry-ALL for a hip, manageable nylon stand bag. The literal relief, the weight of the world lifted from my shoulders, was liberating. Since then, I’ve cycled through countless newer models, finding excuses every few years: a broken zipper, a disliked color, or just plain laziness to clean out the accumulated crushed beer cans, candy wrappers, lost balls that I had found, and assorted other golf paraphernalia from the “old” one. Each discarded bag was either gifted, donated to junior golf, or occasionally, just left for the garbage truck.
But the staff bag, like my wife’s four boxes of wedding china, was immune to purging. It always survived the next move, ending up in a storage unit, basement, attic, or garage, forever banished from the light of day.
That changed a few years ago. Our oldest son and his wife announced we were going to be grandparents for the first time. My wife’s mind instantly began to whirl.
During the pandemic, we bought and began renovating a 120-year-old mill executive mansion (at least that’s what the real estate agent called it) in a small, rural town in North Carolina. The only space left untouched was the creepy, possibly haunted, third floor, which we had been using for storage. “We’ll redo the entire top floor and turn it into a giant playroom for our grandchild,” my wife declared, just seconds after the big announcement. My counter-offer, after quickly calculating the cost and how much work would be required, “Can’t we just buy the kid a pony?”, was swiftly rejected.
The arduous task of cleaning out four decades of “treasures” began almost immediately: old toys, unused furniture, knickknacks, family heirlooms, sports trophies and much more. At the top of the “must go” list was the staff bag, discovered sitting in a dark corner.
“That boat anchor can go,” my wife scolded, reminding me she thought I’d gotten rid of it three houses ago (I could have said the same about her two heavy crates of commemorative teapots). The golf bag was unceremoniously hauled down three flights of stairs and dumped into the garage, our staging area for all things to be jettisoned.
Fast-forward to last week. Sundays are sacred: church, lunch at our favorite diner, and then I play golf religiously while my wife tackles the chores like home repairs, weeding the flowerbeds and mowing the grass I swore I’d get to earlier in the week. I played exceptionally well and was excited to share every shot with her when I got home.
She was waiting on the back porch. Only she wasn’t alone. Next to her was the staff bag. One of the many ex-girlfriends from my bachelor days would’ve been a more welcomed sight.
“Found this up in the eaves while spending all afternoon straightening up your mess in the garage,” she began her lecture. “Along with a stack of old Sports Illustrated swimsuit issues, three broken fishing poles, a box of moth-eaten sports jerseys, and a bunch of other stuff you swore you had gotten rid of.” She shook her head with palpable disappointment, sighed deeply, and left me alone to contemplate the error of my ways.
Most husbands, I’m sure, would have slouched into the house, admitted their deception, and apologized. I chose a different strategy: hiding in the garage for the rest of the evening, hoping the incident would blow over by morning. I manhandled the staff bag back into the garage, fully intending to make good on my promises from two, five, 13, 25 and 36 years earlier to get rid of the oversized albatross at daybreak.
A few lukewarm beers later, I found myself studying the weathered, dusty object of my demise. “I should at least check out the pockets and compartments,” I thought. “Never know what I may find, a couple of dollars, maybe Jimmy Hoffa’s body.”
I went through the bag, and here are just a few of the things I discovered:
- A ball marker from the 1999 US Open played at Pinehurst No. 2. Most golf aficionados will remember that was the year Payne Stewart rallied from one stroke back with three holes to play Sunday to beat Phil Mickelson. He would die tragically in an airplane accident a few months later. A friend of mine called me on Wednesday afternoon of that week. “Road trip” was all he said. He had gotten tickets for Thursday’s opening round. It didn’t matter there wasn’t a hotel room available within 200 miles. We ended up driving five hours and sleeping in his car that night in the tournament’s satellite parking lot. We were the first through the gate the next morning. We never saw Stewart. Or a young Tiger Woods. Instead, we got to meet John Daly who strolled to the first tee just after 7 a.m. with a Diet Coke in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He took a few practice swings, addressed the ball, and then backed away. “Hey guys, thanks for coming,” he told the only two spectators in the stands. We got out of our seats and followed him all 18 holes.
- A chipped up pencil from the now abandoned Smithfield Downs Golf Club near Suffolk, VA. Jack, our son, was 7 or 8 years old and had attended a youth golf camp and taken a few private lessons. For Christmas we got him his own golf clubs and a promise that I would take him to play his first “real” course as soon as the snow melted. That opportunity came a few days later, bright, sunny, and 28 degrees. We pulled up to the forward tees at No. 4, a very short par 3 played entirely over water. After watching him take at least six dozen strokes to complete the first three holes, I remember thinking two things: he has a better chance of becoming a lawyer when he grows up than a professional golfer. And second, there was no way he would ever clear that pond. I was both right and wrong. He’s now a very successful attorney in Fredericksburg, VA. But he did make it over the hazard. His tee shot landed way short, bounced four times off of solid ice, jumped to the other side and ended up two feet from the cup. It was his first-ever birdie and I wrote his score down for everyone to see.
- An old scorecard from Queenstown Harbor Golf Links in Maryland with a final score “76” scribbled on it. On a hot summer afternoon in 1997, using a set of Cleveland VAS 792 irons (the ugly cavity-backed purple ones Corey Pavin made popular) and impersonating Freddie Couples’ upright hitched swing, I posted my career-best round. Playing with me that day was my dad. I’d trade that round and a million more for a chance to hit just one more shot with him alongside me.
I ended up spending the rest of the night going through the bag and finding so many memories. I also found myself cleaning it off with a rag and warm, soapy water. A little leather polish and it was as good as new. The bag, just like my wife, was as beautiful now as it was 38 years ago.
You know what? I don’t care what my wife thinks. I think I will keep the old bag. Both of them.
Bud Key is TeeTime Golf Pass’s Mid-Atlantic Director and a former magazine editor with decades of golf writing experience. Your Golf Bud is his ongoing column on the game, the people who play it, and everything in between.
