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화이트 티셔츠에서
Welcome to the TeeTime Golf Pass blog, Clubhouse Golf Guide. Here you will find feature stories on some of your favorite local, regional and destination golf courses and stories celebrating the game we love.
I own the golf bag from hell. It’s roughly the size of a ’72 Lincoln Continental, weighs two tons, and was hand-stitched from more full-grain leather than you’d expect to find at a S&M convention in Vegas. The fur-lined, overstuffed TOUR-style staff bag was presented to me for winning a closest-to-the-pin contest in 1988, the same year I got married. And it led to me and my wife’s first marital spat.
I turned 60 earlier this month and am bamboozled by the fact that I’m now the same age as “old” people. In defiance I spent my birthday hiking the expert trail at Grandfather Mountain in North Carolina, appreciating the irony. Standing on a rocky crag near the top, I unceremoniously gave Father Time the middle-finger salute while contemplating how in God’s name I was going to make it back down to the parking lot.
Ask a priest, pastor or preacher and they’ll tell you their decision to go into the ministry was one of the hardest they ever had to make. That’s the crossroads where I find myself — trapped, if you will, somewhere between the gates of heaven and the pits of hell.
I must really be the luckiest golfer in the world. After all, as the Mid-Atlantic director for TeeTime Golf Pass, I can’t recall the last time I played a course that wasn’t considered — at least by its owner or developer — a “championship” layout. And I’ve got the marketing and promotional materials from each one to prove it.
Okay, I admit it. I absolutely love playing golf with someone who is having a really crappy day. First, it makes me feel a lot better about my own ineptitude. And second, you never know what outlandish excuses you’ll hear… ones that you can store away for your own personal use later.
Have you ever wondered what knucklehead came up with the bright idea of putting houses and condos on golf courses? If you play like I do, the thought probably pops into your head several times each round.
I’d been laying the groundwork for weeks. A compliment here, a gentle brush of the shoulder, there. Volunteering to help with the dusting and vacuuming was a strategic maneuver. Insisting we must spend more time with her mother, borderline brilliant. Agreeing to watch a Hallmark Channel movie instead of Friday night wrasslin’ and the trap was set.
New Year’s resolutions are a holiday tradition. It’s the perfect opportunity to make promises you can’t possibly keep. Exercise more. Drink less. Golfers start each new season with much more lofty goals. Practice more. Cuss less. There is one resolution, however, I intend to keep this year. Under no circumstances will I ever invite my wife to caddie for me again.
It’s been postulated that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. If so, it’s safe to assume I drive in the fast lane and hit every pothole possible whenever I play golf. I can only imagine the celestial tug-of-war that ensues between the heavenly angles and their fallen comrades when I make a tee time.