I must really be the luckiest golfer in the world. After all, as the Mid-Atlantic director for TeeTime Golf Pass, I can’t recall the last time I played a course that wasn’t considered — at least by its owner or developer — a “championship” layout. And I’ve got the marketing and promotional materials from each one to prove it.
Ask a priest, pastor or preacher and they’ll tell you their decision to go into the ministry was one of the hardest they ever had to make. That’s the crossroads where I find myself — trapped, if you will, somewhere between the gates of heaven and the pits of hell.
I turned 60 earlier this month and am bamboozled by the fact that I’m now the same age as “old” people. In defiance I spent my birthday hiking the expert trail at Grandfather Mountain in North Carolina, appreciating the irony. Standing on a rocky crag near the top, I unceremoniously gave Father Time the middle-finger salute while contemplating how in God’s name I was going to make it back down to the parking lot.
I own the golf bag from hell. It’s roughly the size of a ’72 Lincoln Continental, weighs two tons, and was hand-stitched from more full-grain leather than you’d expect to find at a S&M convention in Vegas. The fur-lined, overstuffed TOUR-style staff bag was presented to me for winning a closest-to-the-pin contest in 1988, the same year I got married. And it led to me and my wife’s first marital spat.