Geezer Golf

Wimping Out

It is 0830 and I should be on the first tee, but here I sit sipping coffee and finishing the Times’ crossword. Once again, I have wimped out. Why, you ask? 

Could it be that it is already near eighty degrees and the humidity is over ninety percent? Perhaps. Or is it because the concoction of senior meds that I take give me the kind of constipation that they could have used for Hoover Dam. I suppose.

But it is that despite having lived in humid and hot conditions throughout my life, I find that the combination of heat and humidity here in the South brings me to my knees (literally). 

Last week while warming up on the practice tee, I sweated through two golf gloves and consumed a half liter of fluid. Did I mention that I have had MOHS surgery for skin cancer, have diabetes, a stent in my aorta and other aches and pains commensurate with being a septuagenarian? Ooh poor baby. Well, screw you. Like the sage of all of us over-the-hillers, Mr. Clint Eastwood once said A man has to know his limitations.

When it comes to golf, I have a lot of limitations, as are noted by my 24 handicap. But when I begin to wilt and lose focus on the ball as I try to line up a shot or find myself shivering when the mercury soars, I know I have pressed the envelope too far.

The thing is I like to play early in the day, when the air is cool, and the crowds are thin. Unfortunately, at 0400 this morning I stuck my nose out the door only to find the atmosphere a dank and soupy mix. I staggered back to bed and slept another three hours. 

So, I must admit I am a wimp. The good old boys that play at Perdition Dunes don’t seem to mind. Many of them were born and bred here in Dixie and for them winter is their enemy. 

For myself, I can’t wait for autumn.