Louie,

I sent this to one of my golfing buddies a few weeks ago.

Golf is a great game.

A greater game when shared with friends.

Enjoy,

Jim

James Algiers <james.algiers@gmail.com>

Tue, Aug 11, 2015 at 8:54 AM

To: Gene 

Dear Gene,

Just a brief note from me to you this bright and cheerful morning, a morning such as we awaited, in the past, to tee off on number nine.  To struggle through nine holes with guys such as Verlin, Cyril, Joe, Terry, you, and I, such diminishing golfers and increasing duffers. Duffers develop, are not made, just deteriorate and tumble from the heights of satisfaction to the depths of frustration.  

The golfing tumble is ongoing once it begins; the onset is subtle, but one day after 18, while placing the clubs in the trunk, an awareness develops, and one accepts the position that never again will one challenge a fairway, an approach, a putt or even a “gimme.” 

That greatest game for those over fifty, a game of anticipation, of participation, of challenge just one day becomes too much, and as the clubs are placed in the trunk, an expletive “oh shit, where did it go” blasts from the frustration of “over a hundred” again. 

But what the heck, we enjoyed those mornings, filled with sun and dew on the fairway, passing morning flatus in the great outdoors and laughing at a ribald story for the benefit of Verlin or Father Cyril. 

Then, there was the seriousness of making the winning putt and having “one of the cloth” buy the Pepsi and chips after the stroll in the park and the morning of the frustration with golf. 

Ah yes, Gene, no matter who the partner was, the challenge always was within,  within one’s self - the partner never lost the match, only we within self lost; by botching the approach, having a flail left arm on the drive, lunging at the approach, and pushing the putt.

About the most frustrating emotion-producing activity on a golf course is “missing the dam putt,”’ pulling, or pushing the ball, scuffing the green, all resulting in “one more stroke” and a few choice words or thoughts, a pledge never again to waste time on the course, to never again waste a gorgeous morning on the damn fairways, “Why do it? It never improves; if improvement is noted, all know it will not last.”  

Why then, Gene, did you play the damn game? Why, on Sunday mornings do I hear golfers from number six raise their voices in elation or vocally bitch a missed putt— hear them from two blocks away as I sit on the porch reading Gary D'Amato's write-up in the Journal Sentinel.  

Why do I bother with listening to the voices coming from beyond Mally’s house, floating over the trees, and making me envy those bastards who might be better off “in church” rather than on the course Sunday morning? 

But what the heck, as I eat strudel and drink coffee on Sunday morning, I do enjoy the interlude of floating voices from the “golf course.” 

It’s great to have played and enjoyed the personal touch of the past, the 250-yard, down-the-middle drive, the chip-in — of the past, and the handshake after the “match.”  We seldom played a “match” but often shared the gift of true friendship on bright mornings.  

Thank you, friend, for the good times of the past five years.

Hit’em straight,

Jim