I’m 72 Years Old Or, As I Prefer to Say ... Even Par

I’ve reached the age where:
I have to rappel into pot bunkers.
I ride.  If I see a golfer my age romping around on foot, I’ll consider walking.
I park the cart as close to the ball as I can without running over it.
I no longer putt three footers, I rake them.
My golf bag contains several items available only by prescription.
I’m thankful golf is played during the day.  I don’t drive at night.
During a lesson, the pro told me to stand up straight.  I said, I am.

                               * * *

Daily aches and pains are part of growing old, but I needn’t be reminded of my advanced age.  It’s not necessary to ask me if I ever played with Francis Ouimet.

I’m content to go about my business without listening to the clock tick.  Unfortunately, I often play golf with older people who insist on discussing their medical problems and emergency room experiences.  They tell me about cataracts before I have them, trifocals before I need them and handicap-parking permits before I want them.  What’s next, comparing bypass scars?

Once in a while I run into a crony at the supermarket or in a restaurant, and get a blank stare when I say hello.  I’ll say, Hi, I’m Joe Smith, we played golf last Wenesday.  Nice to see you Frank.  It usually triggers a smile and a LOUD response, "JOE SMITH, I remember Joe Smith.”  That means the old geezer is congratulating himself for remembering me.

The other day our waitress brought lunch and said, “Jim?”  My friend raised his hand and said, “Over here.”
I told him, “No, she said Jim -- you’re Tim.”

I look at the humorous side of growing old.  We kid each other about things like hip replacement surgery, memory lapses, and so forth.   We rarely keep score because we can’t remember how many shots we’ve taken at the end of a hole.
“I think I had an 8.”
“Didn’t you hit a ball in the water?  You had a 9!”
“Wasn’t that yesterday?”

One time I played with three seniors.  While we waited for the group in front of us to play their second shots I noticed all three of my companions were wearing medical alert bracelets.

It gets better (or worse): We stopped for a sandwich after golf.  The conversation was mostly small talk until the food arrived.  One of the fossils took a few bites, wiped his chin and said, “I’m doing something interesting.”
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m taking falling lessons,” he replied.

                               * * *

An old relic shows up at the golf course accompanied by a cute, scantily-clad girl caddie.  On their way to the pro shop, they run into the old guy’s doctor.  The doctor is stunned to see his patient with a hot chick so he says, “Wow, that’s some caddie you have.”

The old man says, “Just following your orders, doc.  Doing what you told me to do.  You said to get a hot mamma and be cheerful.”.
The doctor says, “That’s not what I told you.  I said, You’ve got a heart murmur, be careful.”

                              * * *

Three old fossils are playing. golf.  The first one says, “It’s windy, isn’t it?”
The second one says, “No, it’s not, it’s Thursday.”
The third one says, “Me, too, let’s go get a drink.”

                               * * *

Two senior golfers finish their round and walk into the pro shop to post their scores.  One says to the other, “I had fifteen riders today, how many did you have?”
“Twenty two,” the second guy replies.
His pal smiles, “Congratulations, it’s your all-time best.”
The pro overhears the conversation but isn’t sure what they’re talking about.  So he asks, “I heard you talking about riders.  What’s a rider?”
One of the old guys answers, “That’s when you hit a shot far enough to get in the cart and ride to your ball.”

                               * * *

 

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