I’d never golfed with Sal, but felt that I had. His highly detailed playlist of golf experiences was unending and as he began to relate them, I learned that I’d better sit back and relax, as I was in for a long ride in his memory-driven golf cart.
A colorful chap, Sal was right out of Central Casting for “Senior Golfer.” He was deeply tanned, even within each of the wrinkles around his eyes when he smiled. Getting the sun into those crevices isn’t easy. You just need to be out and under it a lot.
His arms were well tanned, and he did have the dead giveaway that he was a golfer. His left hand, the one that wore a glove, was several shades less tanned than his right hand. Never engage a guy like this in a golf bet because, despite his claims to have only been out twice this year, his hand says otherwise.
Sal even wore golfer duds around the office and always looked like he was searching for a lost ball. He showed up in a striped, collared short sleeve shirt, lightweight Arnold Palmer pants with a secret tee pocket and colorful socks with greens flags and putters.
But the magic began when Sal began to relate a golf story. Somehow, whatever was awaiting immediate attention on your computer was relegated to second place as Sal began his story:
“I was on the 13th hole. You know, the one with your back to the ocean and the green a long stick out there. I’m thinkin’ it’s 335 yards. No, wait a minute. That’s the 4th hole on the first 9. This one’s 375. It’s gonna’ take an even bigger poke.”
“I’m standing there over my ball. You know, I’m playing the new Excalibur XX. Man, what a ball that is.”
“I can feel the wind rustling my pants. I can see it moving those palm fronds over on the left side of the groomed fairway. I do my setup. Then my address. I waggle. Do my checklist, then begin my downswing. Man, did I crush it.”
“You do know I’m using the new Ball Peen Driver, don’t you? It’s a 4.5 deflection, but get one set up for you. Just get one of these bad boys. It just spanks that ball. It’s taken 3 strokes off my game and lowered my handicap by 2.”
When I asked for a closing thought on this numbingly long golf shot, like where the ball landed, Sal paused, then said, “Oh, it went into the pond. But really way, way out in the pond. No one told me that pond was even there.”
It was at that moment that I made a decision. My golfing days were officially over and I moved to a simpler game with far fewer stories. It’s pickleball.
No ocean breezes, no costly clubs, no designer balls, no ponds, no breezy pants with secret tee pockets.
One ball. One paddle. Game on.
A former ad agency creative director, Jim now writes just for fun. Looking back, he realizes how few semicolons he ever used in writing ad copy. He promises to do better.