Sliceless

I hoisted my golf clubs from the garage floor into the car trunk. Rrrrrrrip. The large handle ripped right off the bag, crumbling into dust, like the diaphragm in a virgin's medicine chest.

Unused for five or six years, the fabric of the golf bag was simply rotting away from the clubs. Was this an omen? Undaunted and one handle short,  I headed down to San Luis Rey Downs for the Fallbrook Community Center senior golf lessons.

After checking in the instructor told me to get my clubs. Reaching into the truck, I used the remaining smaller handle to lift the bag out of the car. Rrrrip! That handle went too! Now my poor old bag was short two handles with shredded fabric hanging off the sides;  the once jaunty pink color has faded to an unhealthy violet-beige and my clubs have an antique look, like me.

Fortunately I made the right choice about my golf shoes. Tucked into the dark recesses of the golf bag, I'd forgotten about them. When the bag broke and I examined it a little closer, I discovered the shoes in one of the pockets sharing the space with old score cards, credit card slips and a bunch of tees. Exposing them to the light of day, I was struck by how ridiculous they look, with cut-out leather work in the toes, flaps and fringes. Awkward and stupid, they felt to me like big clown shoes even when they were au courant. My fellow class mates were wearing golf shoes, but they looked more like 2010 than 1995. My golf shoes were blaring the BeeGees and exposing me for the dinosaur I've become.  

Two guys and five women in the class. All of us less flexible than we once were. When the group arose from a sitting position in slo-mo, you could almost hear the creaks. My objective? I hoped I could learn to hit the ball longer and straighter from the lessons.

Nobody smelled like moth balls, but wafting back and forth in the firmament over our heads was the unmistakable aroma of Jim Beam. Somebodys joints needed a little more oiling than Vap-O-Rub could provide. It's hard for me to imagine trying to line a ball up or swinging at anything, under the influence, but you make exceptions to the rules the older you get. In fact, you forget about the rules altogether. No wonder there's so much hanky-panky in these senior residence places. 

Our teacher told us that he's taught more than 37000 lessons. Needless to say, he doesn't golf in his spare time. Following one hour's worth of his instructions on grip, lining up and stance, I hit my first ball and was amazed that it went straight at the target -  sliceless!  I'm hooked (pardon the pun). Gonna buy some new shoes.