I was recently asked to tee it up in a few tournaments. I used to love golf, but now it’s totally different. I haven’t picked up a club in 2021. I’m not kidding. I don’t miss it — and I seriously can’t remember the last time I played my own ball. It has been a few years as I now stick to scrambles. Isn’t it funny how things go in cycles?

Yes. I was somewhat inspired when Phil Mickelson won the PGA Championship. It gave a little hope to this over the hill has been. Maybe I can still compete with the youngsters. A few days have since passed, and I am getting back to normal. I used to be a rather good player. Feel free to take a look at my scrapbook. My entire life was built around her. My very first job was with the United States Golf Association. I worked at White Deer for 15 years. I also coached the Lycoming College Golf team for 13 great seasons. Yes. Golf was a huge part of it.

I was undefeated last year during COVID. I think I played in three scrambles and one Member-Guest tournament. I still get a few boos when I am out in public. How are you a ten handicap Spencer? You used to be a scratch golfer. Some might even call me a SANDBAGGER. Believe me. That isn’t a compliment. SANDBAGGER 1. Someone who disguises a strength or skill in order to gain a competitive edge. 2. A sneaky hustler who deliberately plays well below his abilities just to position himself in a future event. 3. A desperate cheater who posts bogus scores to secure a favorable handicap.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, and words will never hurt. But I am what they call a sensitive golfer. This all started a few years prior. And after pleading my innocence the past forty-eight months, I hope this article will nip everything in the bud. This entire debacle stems from two consecutive nine-hole rounds I posted in 2017.

OK. I opened up the MIGL season with a putrid 48. My worst nine-hole score since I was fourteen. It was the first time I picked up a club in two years, and I obviously struggled with my swing in the cold. Tops. Shanks. Yips. Whiffs. Duffs. Slices and hooks. You name it. I had them all. Nothing went right during my miserable return. It was downright embarrassing, and I cried out loud. I seriously thought about retiring completely.

The following week I was only out for some sort of redemption. I really didn’t do anything different. I only replaced my parka with a fleece. It was a brand-new day, and my swagger suddenly returned. I was in good spirits, and my performance showed. I did my very best to forget about my prior mishaps. I kept things simple and in perspective. I got off to a blazing start and made three birdies in the first four holes. My game was extra sharp that particular evening. I was crushing my drives and holing several lengthy putts. I was in the zone and played flawless golf. It reminded me of the days of old when I was actually solid.

I missed a short bird and managed to tap in for par on the very last hole. My fellow competitors congratulated me on a smooth 34 GROSS. Two under par is a great round, but I didn’t celebrate or sign any autographs. I wasn’t prepared for everyone’s reaction when I made my way to the bar. Word had already spread that I just set a new MIGL record with a NET 24. I shattered the previous mark by two strokes. They gave me a trophy at the end of the season. Four years later, I still hear about it.

So I just hit a solid tee shot on the first hole in the Lycoming College Homecoming Scramble. It felt good to pipe one in front of a small crowd. My friends congratulated me. But I did hear a few boos: much love, guys. But I’d rather fish. Cheers.