Under Grumpa's Hat

After a hiatus of 12 to 15 years, I decided it was time to re-enter the world of golf. This sudden urge coincided nicely with my new part-time job as a groundskeeper at the local golf course. The perks of this job? Free golfing! Naturally, I splurged on a cheap used set of clubs and headed straight to the driving range. Spoiler alert: it was exactly like I remembered, but with extra doses of hilarity and somewhat expected soreness.

Stepping up to the range for the first time in over a decade, I felt like I was reuniting with an old friend who’d gotten a bit weird over the years. My first swing was a testament to the time gap — a mixture of rust and enthusiasm that resulted in a shot that barely left the ground. It felt like I had never stopped playing; I still had some decent hits, some atrocious misses, and a few miracle shots that made me question why they couldn’t all be like that. The good news is that I managed to keep all the balls within the driving range — though I owe a debt of gratitude to the netting for containing some of my more “creative” shots.

After a big bucket of balls, I started feeling muscles I didn’t even know existed. There was a soreness creeping in that made me wonder if my body was trying to tell me to stop before I hurt myself. By the end of the session, my swing was more of a desperate flail, and my arms felt like they were going to fall off.

My “short game” was a pleasant surprise, still somewhat intact despite the years away. It’s like riding a bike, except the bike occasionally veers off into a bush and hits a squirrel. It shouldn’t be too much of a disaster on the actual course, right? My irons were mostly cooperative, hitting fairly straight most of the time. Then there were the hybrid clubs in the set I bought — those are my new best friends. They hit straight and with decent distance, making me look like I might actually know what I’m doing.

The 3-wood and 5-wood were hit and miss. Applying positive thinking, I decided that it was better than just miss. Considering the years I’ve spent away from golf, they were surprisingly okay. But oh, the driver. They call it the driver because it drives you crazy. Domino’s Pizza serves fewer slices on a long weekend than I did in the hour I spent hitting balls! My driver is now grounded to the bag until it learns to behave.

Now, hitting balls at the driving range is one thing, but I knew the real test would be the actual golf course. My first time back on the course, I half-expected to spend more time in the woods than on the fairways, chasing after wayward balls and potentially encountering wildlife. I was not disappointed. I spent so much time in the rough that I started naming the squirrels and chipmunks. The highlight was when a deer casually wandered by, looking at me as if to say, “You know this isn’t where you’re supposed to be, right?”

Looking for lost balls became an art form. I learned that golf balls have a magical ability to vanish into thin air, especially when you think you’ve hit them straight. It’s like they have tiny legs that scamper away the moment they hit the ground. And when I did find them, it was always in the most unexpected places — inside a hollow tree, nestled among rocks, or halfway down a rabbit hole.

Chasing balls across the course also meant dealing with various obstacles. Sand traps became my nemesis. I spent more time digging my way out of them than actually playing. It was like trying to escape from quicksand while wielding a metal stick. And let’s not even talk about water hazards. My ball seemed magnetically attracted to every single one. By the end of the day, I had lost so many balls in the water that I considered investing in a scuba suit and some flippers.

Despite all these challenges, there was something oddly satisfying about returning to golf. Every decent hit felt like a tiny victory, and the laughter over my blunders made the experience worthwhile. It reminded me of an important lesson from my days playing in Penticton: it takes balls to golf the way I do — both literally and figuratively. So here’s to many more rounds of chasing balls, discovering new muscles, and hopefully, finding a way to make my driver behave!

The good news is that I have better odds than others to finding my lost balls, as I will most likely mow over a few in the rough around the course on my next shift.