Golf season began at 7:42 a.m. Tuesday, but I missed the call.
The fellow I play with most mornings at sunrise, Larry Kaiser, deemed that beautiful spring morning the start of the season, without advance notice. When I found his message two hours later, he never wavered. “Meet in an hour for the back nine?’’ he texted. But I had to pass.
My new clubs were still in the basement. The woods remained wrapped in factory plastic. I hadn’t tested my creaky golf muscles since our last match, Dec. 10. It was irritating to miss a chance to baptize the season. Frustrating too. Hey, Michael Jordan was cut from his high school basketball team; I was in a similar state of mind.
Was this a harbinger for the season? Might I become the king of dreaded four putts? Perhaps need swing therapy?
So I did what any hacker would do — I went to the driving range. The 65-degree, sunny day had dipped to 47 with a 20 mph wind. I figured 45 minutes before closing, the mats wouldn’t be choked with golfers. I was wrong, but luckily I got the only open berth.
Going to the range is always an education. You get to observe human nature, overbearing parenting, struggling golf swings and young love in action, all for the price of a small bucket of balls.
Who’s your daddy caddy? – Before I took my first swing, I heard the chatter from two mats away.
Dad: “Keep your left arm straight.’’
Teen-aged daughter: Eye roll. Swing.
Dad: “Take it back behind your ear.’’
Daughter: Grimace. Swing.
Dad: “Make sure to keep your head down.’’
Daughter: Eye roll. Grimace. Sucking teeth. Swing.
I couldn’t eavesdrop any longer. He was bombarding her with instruction. How about one swing thought at a time? Relax pops. Let her enjoy the moment.
Save the last dance for me – Behind me, I saw the young couple in their early 20s. The boyfriend was hitting shot after shot, adjusting his alignment sticks with each swing. Serious player, I surmised.
His girlfriend never said a word but watched intently as she shivered in the breeze. The wind was constant at 20 mph and the temperature did not climb in the partly-sunny skies. She continued to stand by her man.
After about five more minutes, I heard him offer: “You can wait in the car. I’ll only be another five minutes.’’
She took him up on the offer. After 30 minutes, he remained oblivious, still swinging away, still analyzing the flight of each ball.
As a veteran of 41 years of marriage and a presenter during Pre-Cana preparation for my church, I felt like I failed the young woman. I should have interjected: “Run away before it’s too late. You’ll become a golf widow.’’
Unhappy Gilmore – The guy who took the mat next to me probably was swinging for the first time since the December snows piled up. He dropped a half-dozen balls on the mat and took out a wedge. Good choice. Stretch those muscles and ease yourself into the season with a short club.
Nope. He left his patience at home.
After the second swing, I heard, “Oh my God.’’ After the fourth, he moaned, “Jesus.’’
Chill dude. I wanted to say that the Lord wouldn’t hit it so poorly. He could probably split a fairway with a 1-iron. But I held my tongue. A moment later, the wind blew over his bag. It was a metaphor for his game.
The guy with high expectations reminded me of my late 1970s summer job, collecting greens fees at St. Lawrence State Park Golf Course. The tortuous part was that I had to watch every player tee off on No. 1 and eventually putt out on No. 9. Every day, I longed to close my cash box and go play, but duty called.
My enduring memory is the guy who announced he would be breaking 90 that summer because he bought new clubs. In a rare instance of keeping my mouth shut, I thought: “Not with that swing you’re not.’’
Now it’s my turn to be that guy. My aging Ping G5s with stiff shafts have been replaced with Ping G430s with senior-friendly graphite shafts. Except I hope to break 80, something that only about 8 percent of golfers can achieve.
Larry messaged again. He is ready for our first match of the season. So I went back to the range under sunny skies, no wind and mid-50s temperatures. I hit the ball wonderfully, meaning I’ll probably implode on the course.
To preserve my marriage before I disappeared for five hours, I cleaned the garage, fixed the front walkway, recycled the aluminum cans and stowed the snowblower. When I tried to put away the snow shovel, my golf widow interceded.
“You can’t do that,’’ Mary insisted. “You can’t put the shovel away before St. Patrick’s Day. You’re going to jinx it.’’
My knees weren’t shaking, as if I stood over a must-make 4-foot downhill slider, but I was compelled to look up the snowiest days in March in Rochester history:
March 1, 1990: 29.8 inches
March 4, 1999: 22.3 inches
March 6, 1999: 18.4 inches
March 11, 1992: 17.5 inches
March 12, 1959: 17.4 inches
I’m hoping she is wrong.
Epilogue — Larry and I have probably played 50 matches over the past few golf seasons. Our overall records are a split. I might have gone 8-2 to start last season; he finished 8-2 to maintain the status quo. We used to play for $1, but now we play for our personal Ryder Cup, a golden $1 Andrew Garfield coin. You have to win it outright to take possession of Mr. Garfield.
In our season opener, a nine-hole affair, I rallied from 2-down on the final two holes to halve the match, but Larry retained Mr. Garfield. I should go back to the driving range and practice.
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://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/
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