“Four!”

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ARGENTINA Through Harold’s Lens:

The 2nd Hole Was Murder!!

Long par 4
Dog leg left
Lush green fairway
Long steep hill
Mountain capped by an area for putting.

The little boy was only ten
Nickname: Metty
Tiger of a tyke
Sixty-five pounds
Soaking wet
A four-foot runt.

Dad’s golf bag weighed thirty-one pounds
Stood three feet tall.

Lugging the golf bag up the 2nd hole
Murder by iron and leather.

Barely lift it
Sling it forward
Dump it down

Groan. Swish. Bump.

Groan. Swish. Bump.

Groan. Swish. Bump.

Dad said the bag built character
The small whippersnapper swore quietly
Older brother Chip had taught him the words
The older brother had schlepped the bag up the 2nd hole too
Now the torch was passed.

Groan. Swish. Bump.

All day
6,262 yards
The little nipper humped Dad’s golf bag around the golf course
Week after week
Month after month
For two years.

Groan. Swish. Bump.

Sweat dripped into eyes
Muscles roared with pain.

Groan. Swish. Bump.

Soon, Dad’s male golf tradition was passed
Younger brother Bart
Another runt.

Bart renamed the 2nd hole
“The Bastard”.

Groan. Swish. Bump.

Meanwhile, the shaveling Metty took up other sports
He retired
Other sports are part of his life
Remembers times with Dad
He now plays golf
Character was built.

I saw this old, heavy, sagging leather golf bag in Buenos Aires. It tweaked memories of the great times I had on the 2nd hole, at the Owasco Country Club in Auburn, New York, as I caddied for my Dad.