Boy, who knew that golf could be such a workout if you've been neglecting weightlifting for a while?
Hoisting a nine-iron over my head and hurling it toward a little ball for four hours never felt so therapeutic.
My hands feel as if I've been digging compacted earth with a rusty shovel for three days straight. (I guess that would tell you something about my swing.)
It's a good pain, though. The pain that tells you you've done something good for yourself. That you've stretched a few muscles and burned more than a few calories.
The score of the game? Oh, it was laughable. Closer to a below-average bowling score than a tally for 18 holes of golf.
The conditions were absolutely perfect for this novice. A sunny and 80-degree day. No humidity. Hardly anyone on the course because the season hasn't officially started - so nobody saw me whiff four times on the 5th hole. Or three on the 12th.
Even the sand traps were forgiving - tamped-down from a lack of recent rain - allowing errant shots to roll in and right back out on occasion, saving the embarrassment of having to thwack away at the ball to get it back on the course.
It was a great way to spend a Friday morning. And a nice way to hang out with my Dad.