Every Wednesday I play golf at the first light of day. This has been going on for some time, silhouettes in the dawn’s pale greenscape on an old hilltop with numbered days.
Can’t really tell who’s there but I approached a group anyway. Room for one more?
Well ….. join in (if you insist), one of them replied hesitantly.
Ben, I found out later is a grandfather and so are his friends. Been playing golf every week with each other and one other golfer who couldn’t make it today, thus I get to make their foursome.
“You know, it’s not that we don’t want people to join us”, Ben explained. “It’s because we play slowly and with our own rules. We’re also hard of hearing and don’t like to talk much. Sometimes, we just stop halfway and people don’t like it.”
Ben wore knee guards, back support and plasters over his arms. His friends were quite bent and pulled their bags with unsteady gaits. Every now and then, one of them would pause and the others would check if he was well enough to carry on.
I played my own game and left the gentlemen to themselves. Yet slow as they were, they tried to watch out for me, found my wayward balls, showed me the lines, retrieved a club left on the green, pulled my trolley closer to the next hole, and even bought breakfast.
Before we parted, Ben asked for my phone number. “Will call you when one of my friends can’t make it. Hope you can join us again next time.”
How sweet! I think I’ve just been accepted into their gentlemen’s club.