Jul 2, 2025 4 min read

They built a golf course all around my grandparents’ house. The 18th fairway nearly cut through their backyard, and until we put wire grates over the windows, flying glass and golf balls were a common threat.

Dad attempted to play golf a few times. As a little kid, he had fallen off a horse. When the doc set his arm, it was a little too late. Consequently, it was a little “not straight.” It always had a bend in it that made it hard for him not to slice or hook.

I took up golf when I was 20 and quit for the first time when I was 21. My Aunt Ruth, who was 37 years older than me, could beat me without even breaking a sweat.

When I was a teacher, I went golfing once with the guys at a local public golf course. Because school had ended for the summer, this celebratory golfing party involved a lot of alcohol. That day, I saw a complete set of golf clubs tossed into a lake and watched in slow motion as an electric golf cart with two of my friends loosely perched in it go airborne like a paper airplane. Both guys flew out of the cart as it rolled over at least once.

It wasn’t until I was about 42 that I tried to take up golf again, and I went first class this time. My employer bought the club membership, and I bought an impressive set of clubs in a bright red bag. It included one of those drivers with a club head the size of a small pumpkin.

Then, I took lessons from a pro who was smart enough not to be honest about my lack of skill. (After all, I was paying him.) I’m sure it was a painful experience to watch as I would swing the club like a baseball bat, top the ball, and hit it two feet from the tee.

One of my most embarrassing days was at a golf course at a local resort. I had borrowed a pair of shoes from a buddy that were so big they curved up on the tips like clown shoes. To help us improve our swings, they had a video cameraman recording us on the first tee. I took a swing, and my ball came within one inch of hitting him. Then over the course of the next few hours, I lost 18 balls in the woods. Eighteen balls for 18 holes.

Another memorable time, our boss took us on a leadership retreat to a resort in New Jersey. When we got in the golf cart, there was a pile of cleansing pads on the dashboard shelf. No one told me what they were.

The first time I went into the rough to retrieve a ball, I was immediately attacked by bugs that had clearly been the product of nuclear fallout or a toxic New Jersey chemical plant. Within seconds, I had welts and bites on every exposed body part. Those wipes were supposed to be used before going into the woods.

When my friends tell me they “live to golf,” I get it. It’s similar to duck hunting, a way to avoid annoying or being annoyed by your spouse at home

Robin Williams’ summed up golf with his comedy bit about its invention.

“And right near the end, I’ll put a little flat pole with a little flag to give you hope. But then, I’ll put a little pool and a sandbox to (mess) with your ball again.”

And you do this one time?

“(Heck) no. Eighteen (expletive) times.”

Nick Jacobs is a resident of Windber.