The Secret is Out: GOLF.
Somewhere between making New Year’s Resolutions and that point where people give up on resolutions, I found myself drawn to a sport I had previously ignored: golf.
I always loved nature, grass, trees, lakes, and a long, hot walk in the coastal lushness. It looked like fun, but the sort of fun that comes with a steep learning curve and a sizable initial investment.
But when COVID demolished his senior year, Marshall traded his final season of high school baseball for some clubs from Goodwill and lessons on YouTube. He made it look fun and do-able. And his friends were not exactly pros. The group of college kids spent very little money, but they had a good time.
And every now and then, Marshall would say, “You know, you really oughta try golf, Dad. I think you’d enjoy it.” But no one recognizes the vast gulf between this college athlete and yours truly more than I do. YouTube would never deliver for me. A year of videos would be worthless.
But two years passed and I kept thinking about it. Finally, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So — it was decided. I’m in. I’m all in.
In February or March I ‘resolved’ to take the plunge. I bought clubs, found a teacher, and started practicing. I told Wendy, of course, and one or two others. But I thought it would be fun to keep the whole thing a secret from Marshall. Baseball does not allow a spring break, so he would not be back in the house until summer. For two months, I’ve been taking lessons and working my way around the practice greens and driving ranges. (But had never made it to an actual golf course.) And naturally, I’m on my third book about golf (this one is Harvey Penick’s LITTLE RED BOOK).
Marshall was headed home on Tuesday — the first time in the house since Christmas. So I began hiding things I had bought. Golf shirts — in the truck. A pair of shoes — in the truck. Clubs — in the truck. Rolled up the putting green I was using in his bedroom — put that in the truck. Mowed the “greens” and the “rough” at home so it all looked the same. Threw all the balls into a bucket with tees and spare clubs ($2.50 at the resale shop!) — put it all in the truck. Covered everything up. Locked the truck at home every night (which I never do, given the country-house dog situation).
Then I made plans with Ron. My father-in-law set up a tee time for him and Marshall at his club in Cinco Ranch, and all that was left was the big reveal.
So last night I walked in late from work, dressed head-to-toe in golf gear: shoes, pants, a white belt (!), fancy shirt, Callaway hat (being a family name), and Callaway glove. I had a bag of clubs on my shoulder.
“Hey Marshall. Think you and Papa have room for one more in that golf game tomorrow?”
He stared at me. Stunned.
I kept babbling. Nothing important. He kept staring at me. Speechless. He was smiling. But speechless. Finally, he yells, “No SHOT!” Then he keeps staring at me slack-jawed. Saying nothing.
“What? ‘No shot’? What is that? JuCo slang?”
He ignored my question.
“No way. I am shocked.”
I rambled on, as did Wendy and Twila, filling him in on the last few months. I’m not sure he was listening.
“No SHOT!”
I looked at my other college student. “What is he saying?” She shrugged. No idea.
He kept staring at me.
“I am shocked! This is the absolute LAST thing I was expecting. When you said you were working on a surprise for me, I’d have sooner expected you to walk in and hand me a set of car keys. But not THIS. No shot.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means ‘no way.’ It means I can’t believe this.”
“Well, these right-handed clubs are real, and I obviously didn’t buy them for you, so…”
We had a lot of fun filling him in on everything. He kept laughing and grinning and shaking his head all night. He was SO surprised. We went through my bag and all the gear, and his bag, and all his stuff, and told stories about all kinds of things and every once in a while he’d stop and grin and rub his chin or something and say, “MAN! I still can’t get over this! If I’d known I’d be golfing with YOU tomorrow, I wouldn’t have been squatting 450 today! My legs are gonna be toast!”
He was excited.
We played 18 holes today. It was my first time to set foot on a golf course and not be accused of trespassing. Ron, Marshall, me, and a fourth guy about 25 who is a former JuCo baseball player and was grouped with us by the bosses at Cinco. We enjoyed talking to him. (Although, between the rush from hole-to-hole, the whole course a parade of America’s most popular electric vehicles, and the etiquette that demands silence around the greens and tee boxes — yeah, we could have talked more.)
I had fun, although it was INTENSE, and as a beginner, every shot felt like a test, and because of the parties behind us, I felt RUSHED.
But it was fun. I took a few pictures. Put some balls in the sand. Lost a few in those amazing lakes. Had some beautiful shots and plenty of ugly ones. I shot 64 on the front nine, which tied Marshall’s first-ever score on the front nine, which he also played at Cinco with Ron. The back nine was more difficult, but tomorrow I can tell my coach I bogeyed three holes, double-bogeyed one, and was set to hit par on several, but the greens were as fast as a marble table top. I was shocked and did not adapt well to that. But it was a great day. Although as I told Wendy, after I heard what it was gonna cost me, the rest of the day was a blur!
— The next time someone asks me three times if I’m 60 years old, I might have to fudge and tell them what they obviously want to hear. The savings might pay for a tank of gas! Fortunately, Marshall knows all the cheapest places to play, so that won’t be a problem. And today was a special occasion, after all.
It was very special.
