January 2, 2024
Golf and beer are two of my favorite things, but I rarely partake in both at the same time. I’m not opposed to having a cold one during a round—I just generally don’t do it. Maybe that’s because I play most of my rounds by myself during the day. Sure, it’s always 5 o’clock somewhere, so there would be no sin in having a beer in that scenario—even with no one to join me. But as a ‘serious golfer,’ I have found that there is no degree of alcohol that actually helps my game.
So when Kyle, Quinn, and I broke out some beers during our round a few weeks ago, it was unusual. Most of the time when we play together, we’re locked in an intense duel, laser-beam focused on beating the other guys. Beers would only be a distraction. But this time they were actually part of the contest. We had the course all to ourselves on a gray, windy day just barely fit for golf, so we got creative. Instead of our usual straight-up stroke play competition, we made up nine challenges—one for each hole. Some were simple, like playing from the front tee or the back tee, using just one club for the entire hole, taking Happy Gilmore swings, etc. Others were more complicated.
On the 2nd hole, we played from that tee—but to the 8th green—which made for some interesting and unfamiliar second shots and new-found hazards.
On the 5th hole, we played speed golf. The number of strokes didn’t matter—just how fast you could put the ball in the hole. Quinn led off and smacked his tee shot onto the green on the longish par three. He tossed his club in the air and sprinted down the fairway. Kyle and I got a late start and barely caught up with him in time so he could get his putter from his bag on the cart. He got down in an impressive 43 seconds.
I knew I was in trouble. Simply running 180 yards in less than a minute, let alone trying to hit a golf ball along the way, would be difficult. After I sliced my tee shot into the trees, I ran after it in a dead sprint. I had trained pretty hard for the RCC Run the Woods in early November, but none of that training involved sprinting, so after my ‘fast’ start, I settled into my standard plod. Quinn found the ball for me—about 6 inches deep in the timber. I started hacking away at it and it disappeared under some leaves and sticks. We were making up rules as we went along, so I didn’t feel bad when I finally reached in with my hand, brushed away the debris, plucked the ball out, and tossed it toward the green. I knew I was going to finish last on this hole, anyway—and the boys didn’t complain about the blatant cheat. I actually wasn’t embarrassed with my time of 2:40-something.
Kyle hadn’t prepared for any running—he was wearing stylish no-tie shoes—so he asked Quinn if he could wear his running shoes for this hole. Quinn was a good sport and took them off and handed them over. Kyle briefly complained about the shoes being ‘gross’ from Quinn’s ‘Hobbit feet,’ but they couldn’t have been too bad because he put them on anyway. His tee shot was all right, and he made a serious run at Quinn’s time, but finished about 10 seconds slower.
On the 6th hole, we got to throw the ball once from a spot of our choosing. I thought this would be handy for me after my second shot landed behind a group of tall pine trees. I’m the worst chipper I know, so throwing the ball would surely work out better for me here. Not so. I was only about 30 yards from the pin, but somehow my throw came up woefully short—not even on the green. Even with this challenge that should have been advantageous, I double bogeyed the hole.
The 7th was the ‘beer hole.’ The challenge was to shotgun a beer before the tee shot. After Quinn handed cans to Kyle and me, I cracked mine open with the pop top. They both stared at me for a bit, and then Kyle asked, “What are you doing?”
I told them that I intended to shotgun the beer.
“That’s not how you do it! You have to punch a hole in the side of the can!”
“Oh.”
I guess I knew what ‘shotgun’ meant, but, apparently, I had briefly confused that trick with ‘chugging.’ But it had been quite a while since I had any inclination to drink a beer fast. Back in the day, that may have happened a time or two, but now I like to savor them.
Kyle was dejected about my error, so much so that he suggested that we not even complete the challenge. I told them to go ahead and shotgun correctly, and I would just chug. That’s what happened—and I took the hit for reducing the fun factor on that hole.
I was playing so poorly up to that point that I hoped that the one beer might actually help my game. It didn’t—nor did it hurt. We finished the last three holes, and my score was well off the pace—but the boys were tied.
About halfway into the round, we decided to only play nine holes. The temperature had dipped below 50 degrees, the wind was relentless, and it was late enough in the day that we would never be able to complete 18 before dark. So after nine, a playoff was necessary. In the spirit of the unusual rules for the day, we decided to start the sudden-death playoff in the middle of the fairway on #8, a par 5 dogleg.
Kyle and Quinn both hit good first shots. Quinn was in the rough, about 50 yards from the pin. Kyle’s ball went a little farther and he was in the fairway. We drove the cart to Quinn’s ball and Kyle walked to his. Quinn had the trickier shot, having to go over a tree and a greenside bunker. His practice swing looked good to me, and I said, “Yeah. Just like that.”
He said, “No. Too hard.”
His shot soared into the air on a beautiful arc. I was concerned he had taken too much off his swing and that the ball was going to land in the bunker, but it plopped on the green, took a couple hops, and rolled out toward the pin. Quinn is not normally one for ostentatious displays, but when the ball disappeared in the hole, he had a celebration for the ages. After an epic club flip, he shouted hosannas to the golf gods, ran to the green, plucked the ball out of the hole, and held it high in triumph. Neither Kyle nor I could fault him for the warranted exultation.
Having to hole out his chip shot just to tie, Kyle gave it a go, but the ball came to rest about 20 feet from the pin. Quinn was the winner.
I’ve been a father for almost 30 years, so I have plenty of experience on the parenting spectrum. Looking back through those years, I have observed a clear arc in the way I was and am perceived by my kids. Speaking with other parents with children of similar ages, they have also noticed this phenomenon. When the kids were young, I was—in their eyes—the all-knowing, could-do-no-wrong king of the realm. As the years rolled by, their opinion almost reversed, and I morphed into an uncool, poorly dressed, dimwit oaf. Gradually, their perspective changed again—and is still evolving. Now—maybe—I’m fairly clever again, though not infallible. I’m not the hippest cat, but not a dork, either. My wardrobe—well, I’m still wearing a lot of the same clothes from the old days, so that could probably use some refreshing. But, well into middle age, I’m much closer to the king again than the oaf. I don’t require any proof of that—I’ve always felt confident that I’m a decent fellow, and I haven’t changed much since the kids were born. But when the boys broke out the beers on the 7th hole, I stuck out my chest and thought, “I guess I am held in pretty high regard around here. This is what the cool kids do.” But then, I messed it up, losing a little ground on my quest back to dad royalty.
Earlham Echo 
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