If this had been a funeral, it would have been a sunrise service. The final respects to the golf gods began at 7 a.m. on a late November Friday amid unseasonably warm temperature and great conditions – dry ground, little breeze and no rain.
Three hours later, the golf season had been given last rites. A heavy shower already had begun, and the 10-day forecast called for temps in the 30s and more rain. The chances of playing again this year seemed remote. The season was buried, but the mourning will continue all winter.
What a glorious wake this was. Any time you break 90, you have played better than most hackers. But to shoot 85 on a late autumn day, rather than shovel lake-effect snow, was a bonus.
These early morning rounds of golf, equal parts addiction and exercise, keep my heart healthy by carrying a 24-pound bag of clubs over a 6.8-mile walk. My doctor loves it. I love the competition. In golf, you play against the course and its hazards, and your greatest foe – yourself. You have to master that 6-inch fairway between your ears.
The day began with a spectacular sunrise that bathed the eastern sky in gold, purple and blue. We appreciated it all while we waited for enough ambient light to tee off. Pinch me. It was 58 degrees at dawn.
There was a summer of stories to tell Jeff, my playing partner, also a retired educator.
There was the crazy teacher and the school secretary who had breast augmentation together. A wisecracking colleague dubbed it a “4-for-2 sale.’’
I recalled how weeks earlier a distracted golfer crashed a cart on the boulders outside the pro shop. The cart was suspended about a foot off the ground until it was freed. The suspension was damaged, but she wasn’t charged because the club made considerable money off her dinners and greens fee.
There was the pathological liar/teacher who told an unsuspecting colleague that she wrote Lee Ann Womack’s “I Hope You Dance,’’ then autographed the sheet music. George Santos should have such a fertile imagination. My colleagues were astonished, prompting me to take credit for writing “Happy Birthday.’’
I told my personal favorite about the daily meeting at the newspaper. Editors were debating the story of the golfer who licked his ball to clean it after it landed on the green. He sued the fertilizer maker, claiming he contracted cancer. Just as the debate fell silent, my metro editor/spouse whispered too loudly from four chairs away, “Hey, do you lick your balls?’’ I wish she had inserted the word “golf.’’ The laughter required 3 minutes to cease.
All this hilarity was interrupted by my approach on the 13th hole. I lobbed a wedge shot to the middle of the green and watched the ball disappear down a slope. I couldn’t find it. On a lark, I checked the cup. Yep, birdie! What a way to close the season. An 85 was a great improvement over the epic meltdown I had in the climactic league tournament, shooting about 110.
At home, I bid farewell to my clubs, stowing them in the garage loft with a promise to visit again after the winter snow melts.
I rinsed the mud off my golf shoes in the kitchen sink, a move that proves I’m a 66-year-old retiree with the brain of a 20-year-old rugby dirtbag.
I tucked away the most precious prize of the season – a gold-colored, James Garfield dollar coin. My friend Larry the pilot and I have been playing sunrise matches all summer for the princely sum of $1. Rather than exchange dollar bills, we settled on the coin. It has become our Ryder Cup; if you win or draw, you retain the trophy coin. It’s mine for the winter.
Then I recalled the enduring wisdom I had absorbed from another pal, Rick, after a few frustrating rounds many years ago.
“Jim, you know what would improve your game?’’
I was expecting a swing tip, then he dropped his advice.
“Winter.’’
Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitw rite.com/blog/
Holleran Gets It Write 