No More “Fore” Play Here…

Johnny-on-the-Spot … by John Foster …

Recently, my wife and I built a pully lift to get items in and out of the attic at the palatial Foster estate.

Horsing those numerous plastic tubs in and out of the attic, most often around Christmas time and navigating the pull-down stairs is just too much like work.

Part of this project also involved moving all the Christmas containers to the southeast side of the attic and moving everything else to the area once occupied by Yuletide goodies.

As we moved tubs to and fro, we came across our sets of golf clubs.

Neav’s were a set her Dad got for her at an auction probably 45 years or so ago.

She actually used to play with a team of IUPUC employees in an evening league but that had to be better than 20 years ago.

My clubs were originally my Dads’ so that means they’re probably 65 years or older.

Both are complete sets of Wilson clubs.

In one of her rare moments, my wife said, “Maybe it’s time to get rid of these”.

When my marginally chronic hoarding wife thinks out loud about discarding something, I take note.

So we moved them to a temporary location near the fold-down stairs while we decided what we would do with these clubs.

The very next day, I’m doing the word Jumble in the local newspaper and right above it I see an ad from a guy looking for old golf clubs and equipment.

I took that as a sign that it was definitely time to part company with the woods and irons.

It’s funny.

Before we both retired a few years ago, we talked about dragging those clubs out and hitting the courses early in the morning for a quick round.

So how many times has that happened?

Zero.

Nada.

Goose egg.

These days, we’d rather do projects around the house or she’d rather craft while I worked in the yard and flower gardens.

However, I do have fond memories connected with my clubs.

My buddies and I would gather at our house on those lazy summer afternoons and I would borrow golf balls for all of us.

We’d walk around our blacktop driveway, pretending to be bomber pilots and drop our golf balls from eye level on unsuspecting carpenter ants scurrying across the asphalt.

It did pass some time and kept us out of trouble.

One of my favorites was the morning my Father threw his driver farther than his first three tee shots on the first hole and Coolridge Heights in Mansfield, Ohio.

The minute he let go of the club, I saw his shoulders dip just a bit, realizing he hadn’t set a good example for his only son.

He looked back at me and said, “Well, Deke, whaddya think?”

“Play the driver. It got further than any of the balls you hit.”

We had a good laugh and finished the round.

Many years later, the clubs he was throwing became mine and I was playing at a broadcaster’s event in Akron, Ohio.

We played the long 18 hole lay-out at Firestone.

It was the only time I played that many holes with just one ball.

The roughs were like most of the fairways I was used to playing on.

The 18th hole finished near the clubhouse with big picture windows overlooking the green.

I pitched onto the green and did my usual 3-putt and we retired to the “19th hole” in the clubhouse for lunch and refreshments.

Upon entering, noticed a large group of club members were watching as our foursomes finished our rounds.

They were seated around a table and there was a lot of green, folding-money in a pile on that table.

These guys were making bets on our groups as we hit the green.

All I could think was, “Who was the poor fool who picked me?”

But I did only use one ball.

So both sets of clubs have left our home and I hope someone can make good use of them.

Lord knows from the way I played, there should still be a lot of good golf left in those woods and irons..

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