Golf, Humility and Geriatric Bullies

I started playing golf in junior high.  As I recall, I tried it because my friends were playing, and my grandpa and older brother seemed to really enjoy it.

My career continued through high school.  My junior year, our team was stacked: four of the six girls on varsity went on to play D1 golf.  They won the state tournament that year.  I say “they” because even though I was on the team, I contributed nothing at all towards the victory.

My rank after competing in the two-day state tournament was 69th place.  69th out of 70 golfers.  The 70th place golfer did not show up on the second day and therefore was disqualified.  So really, I finished last in the state tourney.  Yes, it was as glorious as it sounds.

Imagine my surprise and delight when the local newspaper published a picture of the two seniors on the team (who were amongst the top golfers in the state) and yours truly.  I just happened to be standing next to the girl who was holding the first place trophy and therefore was included in this photo.  It would be akin to one of Tiger’s “girlfriends” standing next to him in a picture after winning a major, when everyone knows she had nothing to do with the victory.

To add to my humiliation, the picture was framed and hung at our home golf course.

I thought I had put those memories behind me until my grandmother passed a few years ago.  She was married to my beloved grandpa, the golf lover, who died in 1999.  He was an exceptional athlete and his favorite sport was golf. 

Some of his golfing buddies, whom I’d never met, came up to me at my grandma’s funeral.  One of them asked, “Are you Midge?”

“Yes, I am,” I said, thinking, how sweet that their friends were seeking me out to offer their condolences.

“You were the golfer, right?” he said.  The men began chuckling.

“Umm, yes,” I replied, wondering where this was going. "I did golf in high school.”  Maybe sweet old gramps bragged to them that he had a granddaughter that played the sport.

“Oh!!” he said excitedly.  “We used to go to your grandpa's house after playing a round and he would pull out the newspaper clipping when you placed last in the state tournament! You were the butt of all our jokes!”

The geezers chortled in agreement.

I stood there soaking in two revelations.  First, my grandpa had a dark “comedic” side I didn’t know about.  I was the butt of their jokes because I stunk it up on the golf course. Touché, Grandpa. Secondly, old men are ruthless bullies.  They went out of their way at my dear grandmother’s funeral to tell me about all the laughs they’d had at my expense.

As they limped away, I imagined running them over with a golf cart.

Last week, when I asked Ferg, my six-year-old son, what he would like to do this summer, golf was at the top of his list.  Such is life.

It might be time for me to dust off the sticks and humble myself once again.  It’s never too late for redemption, is it?

Yours truly,

The Adult Imposter