---- — I’m not a big drinker. After one glass of wine, I don’t look for a fight, but I do look for a designated driver. My wife calls me a short hitter, which brings me to this week’s topic.
The golf course where I play is now allowing seniors to hit from the ladies’ tees in the tournaments. The idea is that when you reach a certain age you can’t hit the ball as far as the young bucks, so allowing this advantage to those over 65 levels the playing field. Many of the guys choose not to indulge in this option because they claim it is emasculating. Some of these men have been married 40 or more years. All of a sudden, this is an issue?
The first round I played from the shorter tees, I had five pars and two birdies. I also had three guys call me Rosemary. On the 19th hole, Tina the bartender put a little flower in my drink. That’s the last time I’ll order a Shirley Temple.
It got worse as the day went on. When I was in the men’s room, Vince walked in and said “Whoops, sorry, wrong door,” then covered his eyes and backed out.
When I got home, Mary Ellen, who has no real interest in my favorite sport, had a question about some of the terminology used in the game. “In golf, what do they mean by the purse?” I explained that the purse was the total winnings in dollars available to the players in a tournament.
“Oh, I’m glad you won money today, but be more careful in the future,” said Mary Ellen. “The guys at the club just called and told me to tell you that you left your purse on the golf cart.” Later that evening the women’s club champion called and asked me to stop winking at her husband at the bar.
Yes, even the gals were poking fun at me, but I was hoping that Mary Ellen would not be further drawn into the harassing. “Dick, you know how every two weeks or so, we take turns cleaning out the fridge, throwing out items that are expired, and wiping the shelves?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, I think it’s your time of the month.”
Then she started laughing uncontrollably at her own joke, which I have to admit was far superior to most of the others I had already heard that day. I had taken enough flack and needed a break. “Where are you going?” Mary Ellen asked.
“I have an appointment to get my hair done. Jeesh, I mean, to have my hair cut … my hair cut. Now I’m doing it to myself.”
This past Saturday I told my younger golfing partners that I was going to hit from the men’s tees, hoping it would end the abuse. Of course, I did end up hitting most of my second shots from the ladies’ tees. Then on Sunday there was a mixed tournament where the senior men and women played together. After we had all teed off, the search began for our respective shots. “I think I found your ball,” called Randy, who had walked down the left side of the fairway.
“Is my ball the farthest?” I asked.
“No, but it is the pinkest.”
Dick Wolfsie is a television news reporter, syndicated humor columnist and author. He can be reached at Wolfsie@aol.com.