My buddy Frank turned 55 last spring. The day after his birthday, he walked into our regular Thursday foursome, dropped his bag on the cart, and announced-with the gravity of a man who’d just discovered fire-that he was now officially a “senior golfer.”

“You know what that means?” he asked, eyes gleaming.

I figured he was about to complain about his knees or mention something about fiber. But no. Frank had done his homework.

“I played Stony Creek yesterday. Paid $23 with cart. Twenty-three dollars.” He paused for effect. “The kid behind the counter didn’t even card me.”