Playing Through: A Retiree's Golf Lesson

First, some background. From ages 11 through 16, I worked as a caddie at the Country Club of Jackson. It was a 4-mile, 20-minute bike ride from home. I loved it and poured myself into it, often showing up 4-5 times a week. Considering we had to be there around 6:30 a.m. in the summertime, you could say I was dedicated. With all that teenage testosterone, the setting was a bit like “Lord of the Flies”. There were fights and puffery, along with basketball, penny pitching and ping pong, but mostly, I learned the game of golf. I was never great, but it became a pretty steady part of my life through my 20s and even into my 30s, and sadly, for no real reason, dropping off in my 40s and 50s.

(Photos: a business card and the actual caddie patch from my hat; and below, a caddie rating card from July 14, probably 1980ish. Golfers-members would complete the card after the round, including payment suggestions; $9.00 was a great amount.)

Fast-forward to today, late 50s and keenly into my “next chapter”, I’ve been wanting to reignite my delight of golf. Earlier this spring, the Ferris Professional Golf Management Program offered lessons from students. I signed up and was paired with Connor. He was great, giving me excellent tips, shifting my grip, and altering my swing; all for the good. The golf simulator measured everything: ball speed, launch angle, spin rate, club path, and on and on. By our last lesson, my metrics looked good, thank you very much, Connor.

Furthermore, as a retirement gift (to myself), I got fitted for new clubs by Jake at Club Champion; one of the best around. This is no small thing. Hitting my new irons in the golf simulator and on the driving range felt like slicing through butter with a warm knife. They are smooth tailor-made TaylorMades. My Callaway Quantum driver is a beast, carrying 200+ yards, often rolling to a stop around 250, adding 30+ yards to my drives. And then there’s my Jailbird mallet-style putter, my favorite new club. It must have a camera with radar because I’m sinking putts on the practice green. Suffice to say, I’m liking my new clubs.

Last Wednesday, 16-days into my "next chapter", I finally cleared my schedule for the first round of the year. I wiped down my clubs. Packed my bag with three sleeves of nine brand new balls. Made sure to have my Greg Norman-ish style hat, several tall, purple tees and my snazzy Mickey Mouse ball marker.

Did I start with nine holes? No way. I dove in for eighteen. Did I start with a course I knew? No way. I booked a noon round at The Meadows, GVSU’s course. The day was perfect, mid-70s and sunshine. The group ahead moved fast. No one joined me and no one was behind me, so I played enjoyably slow, making sure to count all shots for an authentic score.

Incredibly, I started with a par on the first hole. The rush of excitement was palpable. My bravado was saying, “This game is easy!” Then, I hit some expectant rough spots and one lost ball. Bogey. Triple. Bogey. Double. That’s okay, I knew the first round could be a little rough. Still, I was striking the ball well and then, I rallied, finishing with three pars and a bogey for a respectable 44. Considering this included one lost ball (2 counted strokes), I was thrilled. (Photo: I even had an "easy" birdie putt on this par three, of course, I missed it.)

Making the turn for the second nine, I was optimistic and already thinking how sweet it’s going to be to break 90 the first time out. Who knows what the future holds? City champion? An invitation to the senior tour? It was all in front of me now. I check my bag. Eight brand new balls and another packet of BelVita biscuits. All good.

I step up to the tenth tee, an easy par four. Womp! I instantly top my drive and it goes bounding into the long weeds. I brush it off, tee up another ball and hook it badly to the left. Unable to find my first drive, I give up and take the provisional, lying three. It takes me four more shots and I start the back nine with a triple bogey.

Optimistically letting it go, I smile, thinking to myself, “Only one hole in. Eleven is an opportunity to start anew!” It’s a moderate par 4. I settle up to the tee, take aim, and slice it so poorly, it goes into the pond. A little bewildered, my second drive is a near miss, worm burner. Again, four more shots and another triple bogey. The back nine is not going as planned. And now, I notice I only have six balls left.

Hole twelve. Two more lost balls. Four balls left. Hole thirteen, a ray of hope! A par and one found ball. I’m back in a groove and it feels good. I put the past in the past and move on with high hopes.

Hole fourteen. I breathe in, do my mantras, relax my muscles, and let go of my thoughts. It’s a long par five. I swing and immediately shank my drive into the pond. My provisional drive gets lost in the brush. I find another ball, bringing me back to a total of four balls with four holes to play. At this point, I intentionally stop keeping score, hoping to sneak out of the round with no more psychological damage.

Think again, Pollyanna.

Fifteen. Duffed into the weeds. Three balls left. Sixteen. Shank into the weeds. Now, only two balls left and it’s hole number seventeen. A par three. I’m standing on a hill overlooking a big, beautiful green. It’s only 115-yards and not much danger around. “Certainly,” I think to myself, “there’s no way I’ll lose a ball here.” I pull out my pitching wedge and take a swing. Shank! The ball shoots way off to the right into a patch of deep weeds. I’m down to one ball. My next shot is short, but I manage to walk off the seventeenth green with one ball left. (Photo: hole 17; pretty open, well, except for the weeds in the forefront which should NOT be in play.)

Eighteen. The last hole of the round. The nightmare back nine will soon be over. I started the day with nine brand new balls. I lost one on the front nine and found another three on the back nine. I stand in the tee box. My last beautiful, shiny ball daintily poised on my stylish purple tee. I take a breath and restage my grip, remembering everything Connor taught me in my lesson eight weeks ago. A memory flashes through my mind of hitting 250-yard drives in the golf simulator. I raise my left shoulder and lift the club head slowly to its peak, careful to swing outside-in, like I was taught. Eye on the ball, I release a last gasp of hope for one redeeming moment of glory, and… WOMP! I top the ball. It goes bounding into a patch of thick weeds to the left about fifty yards out.

I stand there befuddled, like a little boy whose ice cream has fallen to the ground. I’ve never experienced this bad of a round in my life. I literally have no more golf balls and no way to continue. I slide the driver back into my bag, jump in the cart, and drive straight to my car. The ladies in the group ahead of me eye me suspiciously as I pass by. I see them later as I’m returning the cart. One of them loudly teases me, “We saw you skip the last hole!” I laugh and reply, “That’s what happens when you run out of golf balls.” She didn’t know how to respond. My guess is she’d never heard of it happening. Neither had I.

As I’m sitting on the tailgate of my car changing shoes, I realize I’ve just lost 11 balls in less than nine holes of golf. 11 balls, not even nine holes. ELEVEN BALLS < NINE HOLES! I let that sink in and reflect to myself, this experience challenges the saying that a bad day of golf is better than a good day at work. I shake my head, laugh a little, sigh, and say to myself, “Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t give up my day job," as I head to the clubhouse and hit the 19th hole.