The Pinehurst Experience
Golf appeals to the idiot in us and the child. Just how childlike golf players become is proven by their frequent inability to count past five.
John Updike
Someone with great insight once said, “Men are like trees. They take forever to grow up.” After spending a few glorious days last week in Pinehurst, NC, that axiom proved all too true.
Last Thursday, a dozen dudes gathered around the first tee of Pinehurst #2, one of the true Mecca’s of golf. The bulk of this collection of gray hairs was from the Left Coast, though one did schlep his golf bag all the way from Hong Kong. To say we were strangers would be a bit of an overstatement, but rare was the individual who could remember the first names of both men standing on either side of him during the taking of the group photo. Two things brought this ragtag bunch of AARPers together; an email chain, and the desire to chase a little white ball around a Bucket List golf destination.
Two teams of six launched balls into the air and what followed were 90 competitive holes over three sun-splashed days. Shanks and yanks far outnumbered the good shots, but that mattered little, as the competitive juices brought out enough personal needling to knit a quilt the size of Augusta National. Men who hours earlier barely knew one another were now sharing fist pumps and high-fives and making salacious references about their opponent’s anatomy. It was more than just testosterone-filled give and take. It was perfect.
If the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet at the Carolina Hotel was the appetizer, and the golf at Pinehurst #2, 4, 5, 6 and 7 the entrée, then the post-dinner cocktails at Dugans Pub were the dessert. In was inside this steamy saloon where legends were made, lies were told, and nicknames stuck like bad tattoos (that means you, Buzzsaw). Three nights of Guinness pints and Maker’s Mark took its expected toll, but no one will ever forget where we were the night the Giants won the pennant. Nor, sad to say, will they let go of my ass-over-tea kettle floor flop while celebrating Travis Ishikawa’s shot-heard-round-Pinehurst. I don’t know how I got there, and frankly, I don’t care.
Today I tip my hat to Paul, Rob, Stu, John M., John B., David, Morgan, Bob, Jim B., Jim G. and Jim M. Golf is a humbling game, gentlemen. But like sex, we don’t have to be good to enjoy it.