By Mike VanZandt
I started playing golf with my Dad in the early 60’s. We played at least a thousand rounds and did so until he was in his late 80’s. Almost everyone in my family has played or continues to play. We played on many Thanksgiving Days and an equally shameful number of December 25ths. I’ve worn my golf shoes to church so I wouldn’t be late for the weekly Sunday Scramble at the Ranch. My ever tolerant wife accused me of almost knocking the pastor down in my haste to leave services. I can’t remember going more than a month or two in all the years since without teeing it up somewhere.
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Usually, and remember golfers tend to exaggerate; I play two or three times a week. In my teens, I’d sneak onto the golf course at night at the Pea Patch in Groves, Texas and collect golf balls from the stagnant ponds. My golf clubs have their own frequent flier miles. Unfortunately, I’ve never been that good a player. I’ve only shot even par a handful of times in my life, and in the tens of thousands of holes I’ve played, I’ve only made two holes in one. I don’t understand the obsession and quit trying to figure it out long ago. If you are a golfer, you get it. If you aren’t a golfer or haven’t lived with one, you never will.
[8-31-15]