I started playing golf in 1983 after watching the movie “Caddyshack”. It remains my favorite movie of all time, but that’s blog fodder for another day. A lot has happened between then and now. I have played golf in Scotland. I have been on the grounds of Augusta National during The Masters. I have walked the Old Course at St. Andrews and stood on the Swilcan Bridge with my late wife Marie. That, my friends, was the mountaintop. I have seen, from close proximity, two of the greatest players in history, Jack Nicklaus and Tiger Woods, play golf. After watching them, I was reminded as to why I work in a printing plant.
I have played a true championship golf course, The Atlanta Athletic Club’s Highlands Course. It was the day after the U.S. Junior Amateur and the course was set up just as it was for the tournament. Once again, I was reminded as to why I work in a printing plant. While there, I stood in front of the four trophies Bobby Jones won when he completed The Grand Slam in 1930. I could not keep my eyes off of The Claret Jug, which is the British Open Trophy. It is the most beautiful trophy I have ever seen in my life.
I witnessed Marie score a hole-in-one in 2006. Six years later I scored one of my own. I had a witness, but it wasn’t her. I once drove the green on a par four while playing Baytowne in Sandestin, Florida and proceeded to four-putt for a bogey. If you had seen the green, where I drove the ball and where the flag was cut you would understand why.
I have enjoyed the company of friends and family on some of the most beautiful and not so beautiful courses on earth. I have seen my two nephews grow up and become fine players in their own right. I have been very fortunate in golf and in life. I have pretty much accomplished all of the goals I set for myself in the game, except for one. I have never broken eighty. I’ve shot eighty on the number twice, but I have never been able to break the barrier.
The first time was at Idlewood, a wonderful old nine-hole course in Lithonia, Georgia that is now a subdivision containing about two hundred and fifty cracker-box houses, one on top of the other. At one point in the round I topped a shot and the ball moved about two feet. The guy I was playing with didn’t see it happen. Only God and I saw it. That two-foot dribbler cost me my seventy nine. I was thrilled anyway because that was the lowest score I had ever shot.
The second time was at Lake Spivey Golf Club. It was about ten years later and was much more painful. Marie and I went out and I parred the Clubside nine, another goal accomplished. We turned onto Lakeside and I parred the first three holes. I was shooting lights-out and could not miss a shot or a putt. Then reality set in and I stood on the eighteenth tee needing no worse than a bogey to break eighty. I made double-bogey and could not talk for about half an hour afterwards. I have not come close since.
So, another season has begun and so far I am fortunate enough to be on the right side of the sod. I have teed it up yet again and the quest continues. I realize that time is not only not on my side anymore but is now conspiring against me. Nevertheless, I will soldier on in search of the elusive number. And, maybe some day when I least expect it, the golf gods will smile down upon my swing, my stroke and my scorecard. I won’t care if it’s from the geezer tees on a goat track. The object of the game is still to put the ball in the hole and a seventy nine is a seventy nine. The older I get, I’m beginning to think that I would even claim it on a par-three course. One day I might even accomplish it at Goofy Golf in Panama City. I could break eighty and shoot my age in the same round. Hey, it could happen. Drinks are on me!