Stiff as a board

 It's been years since I picked up a golf club. Maybe even a decade. Maybe longer.

That wasn't how I envisioned my retirement. Back in the days when I was a working stiff, I would hit the golf course with a certain amount of regularity, perhaps hitting the links twice a week. I'd even reached a degree of competency, scoring in the mid- to high 80s on most courses. Every once in a while, I'd even break 80. You know, just enough to keep me coming back.

But then something happened. I'm not quite sure what. I thought when I retired, I'd end up playing golf more often. You know, all that fresh air and exercise. The camaraderie of being with your friends. The pure and primal exhilaration of hitting a ball with a stick. It was all there.

And then it wasn't. Instead, I practically stopped playing the game.

"Why don't you play some golf?" asked my wife. "You don't play anymore. Go play some golf."

I think she actually was trying to get me out of the house. But I always had an excuse.

"It's too hot" or "I'm too tired" or "I've got yard work to do" or "I'm watching something on TV."

This was so unlike me 10 years ago.

Then, earlier this week, I got a text from my friend and former Dispatch colleague Donnie Roberts:

"Any interest in reviving your golf game?"

Back in the day, Donnie and I would hit the course once a week or so, which helped tremendously to break the stress of working deadlines at The Dispatch. But he quit playing, too, following surgery and other diversions. Donnie drives 18 wheelers for a living now, so his stress level is still there. My stress level is wondering if I should cut the grass today or not.

But, what the heck?  I suggested to Donnie that we should hit the driving range first. You know, to kick off the rust. We could do a golf course some other time.

So we did. Yesterday we met at Hit 'n Run in Linwood. When I pulled up, Donnie had a large bucket of balls waiting for me.

Both of us wondered if muscle memory would kick in. Nothing with the word "memory" in it is a guarantee at this point in our lives, but remarkably, after a couple of mishits and wormburners, we started hitting golf course-worthy shots. About 90 minutes later, after we worked our way through our buckets, we decided to play a round next week and see what happens.

In the meantime, I'm dealing with a different kind of muscle memory. I'm stiff as a board. I'm sore. My back won't rotate. My shoulders won't work. My wrists are shouting at me.

I forgot I'd gotten older, but I shouldn't have worried. My body is reminding me.