Hats Off To Howard
After fighting off a nasty flu for nearly 3 weeks, I decided to hit the golf course yesterday for the first time this month. It was my longest layoff in nearly a year, and I was looking forward to a quiet round by myself. I often play alone because I enjoy the solitude and the chance to clear my head.
My hopes were dashed as soon as I pulled into the parking lot at Countryside, and I realized that every other golfer in the Roanoke Valley had the same idea that day. In spite of the threat of rain, foursomes were stacked up like cordwood at the first tee. Only one other single was waiting in line, so the starter paired us up and slotted us behind 3 other waiting groups. I introduced myself to my playing partner, and learned his name was Howard.
It turned out that Howard is a man of few words, so I didn’t learn much else about him during that round. He was obviously in his retirement years, but I couldn’t begin to guess his age. I only knew that he was old enough to be playing from the gold tees, which gave him an advantage of up to 60 yards per hole.
The wind was blowing at least 30 miles per hour, and I knew that I was going to have a problem with my naturally high ball flight that day. The first hole played dead into the wind, and as soon as I hit my tee shot, it ballooned up into the air and dropped to the ground like a dying quail. Howard was next to play, and I got my first indication of his age when he took a practice swing. His range of motion was severely restricted, with virtually no hip or shoulder turn. Even so, I could tell by the telltale swoosh that he was still able to generate decent clubhead speed with nothing but arms and hands. His tee ball never got more than 10 feet off the ground, but it carried about 125 yards and rolled forever. When it finally came to rest in the middle of the fairway, he was in front of me by about 20 yards.
That story repeated itself throughout the day. I battled the wind with my high shots, and Howard’s low ball rolled past me over and over again. My approaches came up consistently short, or were blown off course by a crosswind, while Howard’s shots simply rolled into the center of the green. I kept having to remind myself that he was playing from the forward tees, but after a few holes that thought provided little comfort.
Howard became a little more talkative as the day went on, and as we played the last few holes I finally began to ask him some personal questions. I assumed he had played his entire life, but he admitted that he didn’t pick up the game until he was 70. I figured at the most that would have been 2 or 3 years ago, and that his solid play was some form of geriatric beginners luck. That’s when he dropped the real bomb. Howard was 87 years old! I had spent the afternoon being out driven by a man nearly twice my age. I’m still reminding myself that he played from the forward tees, but the only comfort I can take is the hope that I can still enjoy the game when I’m Howard’s age.