Perils of Caffeine in the Evening

My dad eschewed golf when I lived at home (probably because of the country club socioeconomics; he was raised as a fisherman and hunter). He called golf “the only game where you hit a ball and have to chase it yourself”.

Then when he retired and started to become inextricable from his chair on the porch, my mom goaded him into trying the game with her. (I believe it was more of an ultumatum)

Bam! On visits home after college, golf became an amiable way to enjoy each other with no more drama than “which tree did I hit?” and how the phrase”I’ll take my mulligan now” was never, in recorded history, singular. I called my parents “born-again golfers”.

As for me, I never took up golf, but not for the same reasons as my dad. After a couple tries, I realized that, with its ten ways to hit ( or fail to) each club in the bag, it would drive me bonkers. But I did play with my parents and brothers as above. I would flail piteously and mark my “10″ score each hole after at least 25 shots, and hope I wasn’t depriving someone more worthy from renting my clubs.

But every now and then I’d roll back and let fly, the impact would make an otherworldly sound, and I’d blurt out, “Gawdamn I smacked that fucker.” The euphoria would last until my next drive from the Ladies’ tees.