So many of my aging buddies are playing more golf. Several of them have a dream of shooting a round that matches their age. Maybe it’s my poor selection of friends, but I don’t think it will ever happen to any of them.
Those who play regularly establish what is called a handicap, as if hip replacements, bad knees, poor eyesight and sore backs are not enough of a handicap. Actually, I learned a golf handicap works in their favor. The worse they play, the higher handicap they receive, which is then deducted from their score. It’s based on the idea that any group of players, displaying a wide range of experience and talent, can play a round of golf and all come up with the same net score.
I like the theory behind handicapping, and I think it should be applied to all aspects of life with my aging friends. Frank, a talented storyteller, should be cut off before the punchline to make him as boring as the rest of us. We need to dent in the fender of my friend Larry who has an expensive, fancy automobile. We should trip those few friends who can still go out for a morning jog. Bobby, in his mid-70s, needs no eye glasses. We should only buy Bobby books with very small print.
Yes, I want to be the head handicapper.