G.O.L.F - Glorious Oldies Lifting Fodder

 Golf. The only sport where you can gain weight while playing it. (I refuse to call poker a sport, despite it being 'played' on sports networks) Other possibilities include pulling a hamstring by sneezing mid-swing, throwing out your back while lifting the flag out, or yelling 'fore' with so much force that you fall backwards. Yet, you may still feel like you've conquered nature. 

It's a game that takes four hours, costs a small fortune, and involves a tiny ball that hates you.

And yet, it's beloved, even revered, idolized by millions. Perhaps especially by those of a certain age group who see golf as not only recreation, but as a retirement plan with exquisite landscaping.

I like to call it what it really is: G.O.L.F. - Glorious Oldies Lifting Fodder.

Swing and a Miss... Again

Let's be honest. The average golfer over 50 (that includes me, and I love it) spends more time complaining about hitting that tiny white ball than actually hitting that tiny white ball. Watching a group of retirees "warm up" on the driving range is like watching mannequins do tai-chi. If they were drunk. Or high on pain killers. Perhaps both. There's stretching, grunting, mysterious wrist flicks, and the occasional debate about whether or not the golf shorts can be put on both legs simultaneously to save energy for the game.

Then there's the modern golf gear. Oh, yes, it's come a long way. Modern golf equipment is so high-tech it could probably connect to the nearest wi-fi hotspot and reorder your arthritis cream for you. Titanium drivers, graphite shafts, and smart golf balls with GPS trackers. Doesn't that say "athleticism"? I don't have the energy or eyesight to follow my ball 5 yards off the fairway so I'm going to track it like a missing toddler.

Low-Stakes Cardio 

To be perfectly fair, golf does involve a lot of walking. Unless, of course, you spring for the electric cart. That transforms what might have been exercise into a slow-motion safari where the wildlife that gets spotted is other golfers losing their tempers, and their balls, in their cargo shorts.

Well, technically there is more exercise involved - especially if you count bending over to pick up your tee, adjusting your hat, or swatting at blackflies during Dave's 14-minute putting ritual.

And then there's the mental gymnastics. Because golf is 90% frustration and 10% denial. You fool yourself into thinking that one good shot on the 17th hole makes up for the soul-crushing cascade of double-bogeys and heartache that showcased the 16 before it. You call a mulligan like it's a constitutional right. You blame your slice on the wind, your putt on the grass, and accidentally throwing your driver further than you hit the ball on the other guys Bee Gees ringtone.

The 19th Hole - Cold Beer and Hot Lies

Ah, yes. The 19th hole. The club house after-round. The place where the real game is played.

This is where golfers gather to debrief, decompress, and distort every single event that shaped the last four hours. By the time Dave finishes his second pint, his triple-bogey on the 548 yard, par 5, hole #7 has somehow become an "almost hole-in-one if the sun hadn't been in my eyes and that squirrel hadn't run interference."

It's a sacred space where bad shots are forgotten, good ones are exaggerated, and every missed putt becomes a Shakespearian tragedy. Wherefore art thy umbrella and thine ball retriever? The beer flows, the tall tales get taller, and the golf carts probably audibly sigh, thankful that they've survived another day of low-speed hijinks and 'oops, I still had my reading glasses on' steering.

For many, the 19th hole is the only reason they show up at all. Because the club house has the perfect lunch (or 4pm supper) combo: a cold lager and a double cheeseburger with a side of denial.

The Social Scene: Geriatric Gossip and Grapefruit Seltzer

For many, the game of golf is less about the game itself and more about the group dynamic. It's a traveling tea party with a greater chance of profanity. It's a mobile support group for men whose achievements on the green are as false as their teeth and women who own more knitted tie-around-your-waist sweaters than shoes.

At the clubhouse bar, friendships are rekindled, backs are iced, and stories are stretched like fish-net stockings on a life-sized Buddha statue. Here, everyone is a legend in their own mind, especially after the iffy chili-dog.

Fore! The Next Generation

Golf is more than a sport - it's a family heirloom. Like Grandma's meatloaf recipe or Grandpa's love of "pull my finger" or Dad's highly questionable dance moves.

Generations bond over early tee times, balls somehow lost in the fairway and exaggerated tales of 400-yard drives sent in the wrong direction.

Just like our children, there's a little bit of mischief in those little white orbs. We whack it with a knobby stick because regardless of our age the mission is the same. We cheer when it obeys, and silently (or not) curse it when it chooses its own path.

It can be frustrating but we love it. My son and I have bonded over every slice, shank, and miraculous chip shot and they've become part of the family lore. I tried to teach him the swing, the rules, and the ritual of blaming the club. And he tried to teach me that socks and sandals are no match for cleats and shoelaces. No deal. 

Golf as Life: Frustrating, Yet Addictive and Too Short

I think there's a reason people play golf well into their 80's, and sometimes beyond. It's relaxing, yet maddening. It helps you think while driving you out of your mind. It's a four hour excuse to be away from your phone, your doctor, and the possibility of assembling IKEA furniture.

Mostly, though, golf itself is a metaphor for aging. You start off strong, lose momentum halfway through, spend a lot of time in the rough, and by the end you're just happy to be sitting upright and speaking in complete, coherent sentences without drooling on your polo shirt.

And if you're especially fortunate, you get to play again next week.

Is golf really a sport? Debatable.

 Is it exercise? Loosely defined, sure.

 Is it psychotherapy? Only by accident.

But for every glorious oldie lifting fodder out there - and for all those yet to come -  I say keep swinging for serenity and yelling at squirrels. Because golf is actually a great game. It helps us make peace with nature, with time, and with our failing rotator cuffs.