Golf: A Tiger tale

by Graham Porter

    I’m hardly as young as I once was, but I prefer not to go into detail on the matter of aging, particularly as it relates to how far I’m now able to drive a golf ball.
    After a recent game, never was I so humiliated! After I posted my score on the pro-shop computer for handicap purposes, almost immediately a loud voice emerged that I suspected could be heard throughout the club: “You must have entered a wrong number.     This computer does not accept scores that high.”
    After sneaking out of the crowded pro-shop, I drove home, embarrassed and discouraged, as I recalled having tried a variety of health supplements that had arrived in the mail over the course of several weeks. Not one had lived up to its promise of returning me to my younger, stronger self. More than anything else, I wanted that promise fulfilled so that, at the envy of my opponents, I again could smash long drives down the fairways.
    Yes, for several months now, the overburdened postman had delivered messages that guaranteed all sort of miraculous health results, but to no avail. Here’s one I remember:
    “Forget what you eat. Forget all exercises. Forget about vitamins, minerals, all sorts of supplements! Now break all the rules and look – feel – perform – like you’re only 35 years old—at 55, 65, 75, and beyond!”
    Grabbing my wife’s cell phone, I had quickly placed my order for that proposed supplement. When it arrived by requested express mail, I snatched it from the startled postman’s hands and immediately launched into a pill-eating program. After a few weeks, I assumed I must have failed to comply with the regimen. I remained tired, old and frustrated.
    With each passing day, the postman’s back grew more hunched from the load he was forced to bring my way. Again and again I would open a promise of rejuvenation beyond belief – but, unfortunately, not beyond my belief.
    I kept trying to discover the supplement that would allow me to drive the golf ball as I used to.
    “Frustrated at how your body is growing weaker?” the next solicitation began. “Try our product for one week. You’ll be amazed at the results.”
    Yes, I was amazed. The result was zero. But did that discourage me? If George Washington had given up, he would never have made it across the Delaware. Day after day, I opened envelopes.
    “There’s never been anything like it – an astonishing natural discovery – super strength – unlimited energy – soon the young women you pass on the street will give you the eye.”
    Yes, I did try the product, but it failed to state whether the glances of those young women would be of admiration or—well, I prefer not to use the word. In my confusion, I also accidentally ordered some Magic Menopause tablets. However, I promptly returned them. Surely at best, they could only have added a few     yards to my drive.
    But now I was set to play again. I had lucked onto the one miraculous supplement that would most definitely improve my golf game. It promised renewed bodily rhythm and strength, and mental relaxation, as well. At last, the day was at hand.
    Relax!, I ordered myself an hour or so before I was scheduled to meet my golfing buddies, not wanting to feel the tension I usually felt on the first tee. Although this miracle supplement suggested taking only a single pill, it did not say I should check with my doctor if I wanted to take more. For that reason, I swallowed two more pills—or maybe three—or was it four?                 Fortunately, that proved to be a wise decision.
    It wasn’t long before I was standing on the first tee with the other members of my regular foursome. Hadn’t I at last discovered a supplement that exceeded its promise? Never had I felt stronger and more relaxed. To everyone’s amazement, I began hitting the ball as never before, easily outdistancing the others.
    “Wow!” they kept shouting in disbelief. “You’re hitting it almost as far as Tiger Woods!”
    I was modestly tipping my cap in response to those compliments when I was surprised to hear a familiar woman’s voice.
    “Wake up, Honey. You’re going to be late for your golf game. And why were you smiling in your sleep?”
    When reality came into focus, I wiped a tear from my eye and whispered to my wife, “Tell the guys I can’t join them today. I’ve already got a game.”
    Slowly I returned to the golf course of my dream. To my surprise, sitting on a bench beside the first tee was a rather lonesome-looking young man.
    “Would you care to join me?” I asked. “I’m going to be playing alone.”
    “Thanks. I really appreciate that.”
    “Go ahead,” I suggested to the nice young man. “You shoot first.”
    His silent response was an extremely long shot down the middle of the fairway.
    Turning to me with a well-deserved smile, he said, “OK, sir, you’re next.”
    A bit nervously, I teed up my ball, then swung. He acted as if the sky had fallen in.
    “I’ve never seen a drive go that far,” he finally managed.     “Never!”
    Nodding my head in genuine appreciation, I noted a look of defeated sadness on his face. As a true gentleman, I gave him a consoling pat on the back.
    “I’m sorry I out-drove you so far. Really I am, Tiger.”
    For some reason, he remained silent.
    “Yes, I know you’re sorry,” he managed at last, “but because you’re a true gentleman, may I make a suggestion?”
    “Of course, Tiger.”
    For a moment he hesitated, then said, “Maybe you should tell your wife it’s time to wake you up again.”

    Graham Porter is an artist and writer who lives in Prairie Village. He is 90 years old.