The Putter

He has this putter that is heavily weighted at the bottom. And I would be overly generous, ok lying, if I said it has served him well through the years. But here we were on our first golf adventure of the season and there was that weapon of misdirection still in his bag. I scoffed as I questioned him as to why it still existed. He just shrugged in silent dispute with my assertion.

He is still out here despite enough physical limitations to assure he would finish a very distant second to a tortoise in a race. Yet he remains undaunted and unflappable. Recently, as a 75th birthday present, he spent a day at the Masters, chasing after those who play a game which is, in name only, the same pursuit as the one he and I now undertake. He continues to love golf even though it rarely returns the favor.

He plays from a forward tee, as the accumulation of insults to his body make anything resembling a full swing turn as impossible as Donald Trump reporting only truths. I have spent years watching as his scorecard fills with ugly numbers while he reacts with nothing but small smiles and body language reflecting an acceptance of inevitable realities.

But this was another year, another opportunity for the golf gods to make amends to my friend. Except he still was using that ridiculous putter. So, there was absolutely zero way for that miracle to transpire.

Off we went. Me chasing glory, or at least distant memories of semi-excellence. He, well, wholly encumbered by that stupid putter. However, on this day, something was different. On the second hole, a six footer found the bottom of the cup. On the next, a long putt finished a tap in from glory. Then another, from seven or eight feet. Nothing but net.

And thus it went from stem to stern. At one point my friend almost sauntering over to me (and trust me, he is not capable  of a saunter) holding the putter aloft as if it he were in possession of that sword pulled from the stone.

When our day was complete, his final score was nestled close to mine, something that happens with less frequency than Donald would say he and Stormy cuddled. And that idiotic putter suddenly seemed a lot more intelligent.

The golf season is long and what is in our grasp one day can become lost at sea in the blink of an eye. But for one wondrous moment, this old guy, with no rational basis for excellence, was within touching distance of something resembling fully acceptable.

And while maybe no one else who was not witness will understand why, tomorrow, with hat in hand, I shall meekly inquire if I may borrow that magical putter and give it a try.