So, let’s just get to it. I’m getting old. I’ll be 55 years old this August. (August 20th to be exact. Venmo and PayPal info available upon request.) I’ve never felt old before. I kinda don’t now. I mean shit hurts. Joints mostly. But they never hurt while I’m doing the thing that will make them hurt later. I can still walk 18 and play tennis with the kid. It’s only after that the shoulders/arms and legs/knees don’t want to move on command.

I guess that’s literally getting old, but I never thought of those things as getting old. How can I be getting old; I still have the sense of humor of a 12-year-old. Fart jokes make me laugh hysterically, and don’t cause me to fart myself while I’m laughing. That’s a pretty decent litmus test in my opinion. Yet somehow, I am getting old.

It’s at this point I feel the need to mention the fact that I am the 2nd youngest of 8 siblings. Not sure if they still read since I haven’t written anything since September of last year. If they do see this, there is no doubt they will take issue with the fact I’m calling myself old since they are all older than me. And they’d probably be justified in their issue taking. I found out the other day age and time are all up for grabs. It’s an individual thing.

I promise I will not use that stupid, tired, cliche Age is just a number. Don’t even get me started with that crap.

See, see! Right there. Old me, (meaning younger me, this is so confusing), would have eviscerated someone for using such a lazy cliche. Instead, I just let it go now, because, well, I’m old and too tired to point out the stupidity of a thing anymore. Eh it happens.

I still don’t get bothered by snot nosed whipper snappers calling me sir. Sort of like it if I’m being honest. What has put the bee in my bonnet so to speak is the golf course.

Yes, yes I know it. Hard to believe. But it’s true. The bone I have to pick is with the thing I enjoy almost more than anything. And it’s worse than that. It’s going to my kid’s golf matches that got this whole screed rolling.

This was Frank at the dawn of his golf career.

That’s Frank. He was 4 going on 5 when that pic was taken. Tiger Wood’s social media people used that pic on the front of the TW Facebook page before the start to Wood’s season in 2015. Proud moment and all that. The point is I was still youngish then. Cool dad no doubt. I was still six months away from going back to work and losing my stay-at-home dad title. Good times man, good times.

I bring that up to brag and to make this point. That kid in the pic, with a buttery smooth swing; albeit left-handed, has grown up. Still golfs left-handed. That’s a shame for another blog post.

But it hit me the other day at his latest golf match. He’s currently playing for his middle school golf team, and I was walking the course watching him play. It wasn’t a bolt of lightning type thing, but something occurred to me while I watched him out there playing and managing his game on his own, in the middle of a competition no less.

By the rules of these type things, I can’t coach or give advice. Only assist with finding a lost ball. I would absolutely cheat the system and try to cheekily whisper stuff to him, but he has too much of my mother in him. That means 2 things. One, he’s a rule follower. And two, and most important, his hearing and the ability to have quiet conversation sucks. In other words, anything I say to him will be met with a response of WHAT DID YOU SAY DAD? at the top of his lungs and I’d be outed as a cheat.

But you know what else occurred to me? Rules or no, I can’t tell him anything anymore anyway. He’s about to be 13. What that means so far is this; on the golf course, he’s starting to figure it out all on his own.

And damn it if the kid didn’t out drive me on the par 4 8th at Dead Horse Lake, our local, during a practice round. I thought he must have caught the cart path or a sprinkler head. So, I did what any proud, self-respecting, dad would do. Oh bullshit Frank, here tee up another one and do that again.

I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what happened the second time. I leveled the field a bit on the way to the next hole though. I made him drive the cart up to the tee box and I walked under the pretense I needed to stretch out my back. Thank god there was no lake or pond between the 8th green and 9th tee box, cause that cart would have been a submarine with no sides, and he would not have found Nemo.

Bro, the bones may hurt, but the neurons still fire.

But at the actual match the next week I was hoisted by my own Pitard as it were.

Walking to the club house from the parking lot to get some water, I passed by the golf cart washing garage. The kid, and I mean kid, doing the duty pushed some stuff off the seat of the cart he was cleaning and offered me a ride to the club house. It was 20 yards away. I stopped and stared at this kid unable to form words.

Then I did.

No man I’m good.

You sure sir. It will be no problem.

It’s right there man. I’m good.

It’ll be no problem to give you a ride the rest of the way sir.

The rest of the w… Is the club house going to keep getting further away? Is it on wheels and about to drive off?

No sir.

Yeah then I’m good.

Ok.

No sir on that last one. That OK was dripping with old man condescension. Like, Ok you old bastard, die on your way there see if I care. type condescension.

I mean how feeble must have I looked to that kid? I felt like I was walking with my normal brisk pace. And yet he seemed almost positive I was not going to make the last 20 yards! And before any of you country club set chime in, this is not a place where tips are a thing. It’s a public course and the kid was not shilling for a few bucks. So I’m not exactly sure what was in it for him, other than to shame an old man. Who knows.

I did let it affect me though as I turned down the spectator cart offered up to parents. It’s a nice touch but screw that. I was walking that course. Even if it was my last walk ever.

Between me and you it is actually harder to walk a golf course when you’re not playing. Lot more standing around. That is less than optimal for the old joints and such. I didn’t care. I’ll free base some Advil when I get home. Screw that kid.

Anyway, here is the kid, my kid. At the ripe age of 12 about to be 13 in mid-May. His swing is decent although not as fluid when he was 4. But who amongst us…?

Couldn’t get the clip to play so you get a still shot.

Solid move there. Head stays down an outrageous amount of time after impact. That’s a big key, and one it took me forever to figure out. He’s old school, doesn’t like using a glove, wears long pants, and goes hat/visorless. He’s only wearing a hat here because he couldn’t get his hair out of Art Garfunkel mode. Google it.

So yeah, Frank has been golfing in some form or fashion for about 8 years now.

Apparently, I’ve been aging during that time.

Who knew?