THE COMING OF AGE

New Jersey is noted for its many outstanding golf courses and my buddy John said he knew a challenging county-owned course he was sure I would like only thirty minutes from Asbury Park. So, we loaded our clubs into the bed of John’s vintage, cherry red, Ford 150 and headed north on a warm and sunny fall afternoon, past the shimmering Belmar Marina to rural Millstone, New Jersey for some serious golf at the beastly Charleston Springs golf complex.

Designed by noted golf course architect Mark Mungeam, the Charleston Springs North and South courses offer 36 holes of championship caliber golf. We played the North Course, a links style course with expansive undulating fairways adorned with native grasses and wildflowers. The course features tons of bunkers and water hazards, and large immaculately maintained greens. It has a USGA course rating of 73, making it a real challenge for an old duffer like me.

When we stood on the first tee, looking out at 500 yards of rolling green trouble, I knew I was in for a long and punishing golf lesson.

The course was jammed, so we were paired with a father and son team from Asbury Park who were friendly enough but who were in their own little family bubble. That was fine. John and I weren’t looking for new friends.

My hands shook as I pulled my driver from the bag. John is a really good golfer who knocks the shit out of the ball and shoots in the 70s. And the two times I had played this summer had been an exercise in futility. So, all I wanted to do was avoid embarrassment — just keep it in play and don’t slow anyone down.

“The green is way up there by that lone tree,” said John merrily as he pointed off in the distance. “It’s an uphill dogleg to the right with bunkers on the left.”

The green looked a million miles away.

And that’s when it hit me. A little voice inside my head said, “Dude, you’re 67 years old, you only play golf a few times a year, and you need to hit from the senior tees.

It was a humbling thought, but the right one, for sure.

I wish I could say that by moving to a tee a couple hundred feet forward helped my game, but it didn’t. The fact that the other two guys we were playing with really sucked helped a bit because it takes the pressure off when people are playing worse than you. But any way you sliced it, I was terrible and totally embarrassed by my performance.

When we arrived at the ninth tee, I was ready to call it quits. I said to myself, “Pull your fucking head out of your ass, Steve. You used to be a good golfer. “

I straightened my shoulders, moved closer to the ball, and hammered a long drive straight down the middle. I was, for the first time that day, even with my young friend John about 150 yards from the green. I easily parred the hole and as we headed over to the back nine, I was feeling confident and about twenty years younger.

I parred number ten. Just missed a par on the next two holes, a long par five and a tricky par four. And I was as happy as a clam because I was competing again. I had forgotten what it felt like. From there, I went par, bogey, par, par.

At one point I stuck a seven iron about ten feet from the pin and John chuckled aloud, “Dude, you know what you’re doing?”

I said, “No, what?”

And he laughed. “You’re golfing.

By now, it was almost dark and the father and son said they were going home to catch dinner and the Yankees game. But John and I played on in the gathering sunset light of night.

As we stood on the last hole, I hit my drive, and John said, “It’s too dark. I didn’t see it at all.”

I smiled. “Felt good. I’m betting right down the middle.”

And sure enough, that’s where I found it, right where it belonged.