It’s spring and an old man’s thoughts turn once again to golf. I first played the game, so to speak, at the age of 14, when two friends the same age and I set out for the local public course early one morning. I had a bag of assorted clubs — many with wooden shafts — and the two of them, both lefties, shared one bag with a driver, a five iron and a putter.

Now the quality of golfers on this course was not high but we definitely lowered the tone. We knew it would be a long day after it took us a total of 11 shots to actually get the balls off the first tee. My left-handed friends looked to be playing a version of croquet;
when they made contact the ball just rolled over the fairway. Their longest hit went perhaps 50 yards. I had more power and actually managed to get some of my tee shots up in the air, but they screamed onto adjacent fairways.

But we counted every shot, except for those in sand traps, which we had to lift out. Nor did we count all those on the par three 11th hole — across a stream and up a steep scrubby hill to an elevated green. We managed to get to the bottom of this hill in a
total of about 15 shots but the lefties simply couldn’t roll the ball up the hill. I had my mother’s old eight iron and after 12 or 13 whacks managed to pop the ball onto the green. The lefties would be at the bottom of that hill still but a crowd of middle-aged men was gathering behind us. We agreed to mark all of our scorecards with my score and then picked up. That gave us 21 each.

When we finally holed out on the 18th, I was
low man with 204 and they were some 20 shots worse. Surprisingly, we loved the game.

We returned the next week and I managed a rather neat 181; the lefties still shot in the low 200s. But we gradually got less worse and by the end of the season I was close to breaking 100. My friends were not quite so good – one managed to get close to 160 and the other shot around 140.

Over the next couple of years I devoted as much time as I could to golf. I bought a few decent clubs and for golf balls I took to skulking through the woods on the very expensive private course near my house, picking up the ones that had stopped rolling.
I also took along a six iron and when no players were in sight I played three or four of the holes furthest from the club house.
Indeed, as soon as we could drive a car I would go with a friend or two to a selected course and sneak on to the more distant holes.

I even joined a cheap course and by the time I was 17 my handicap was 12. Alas, golf requires time and money and I ran out of both and about 30 years ago I gave up the game entirely. Oh, I borrowed clubs a few times at conventions and conferences (which were always held at locations with golf courses) and I played a few holes. I could even start a round with perhaps a par four and then a five and maybe a three. And then a 17 or an 11 or three lost balls. Then I really gave up the game.

Until this spring I hadn’t picked up a club in 10 years. But out here in the country we have a big field in front of the house and someone bought a large bag of golf balls and a bunch of old clubs and soon everyone was hitting shots into the long grass. With more enthusiasm than skill. I couldn’t resist.
I took a three wood and announced that I used to play this game and if they watched I would show them how to do it. I teed up a ball, took my stance, waggled the club head:
Perfect.

“You bring the clubhead back low and slow,”
I said, “Like this. And you turn your hips…”