I do break 100…………….., every now and again. More often than not, I am hovering just over the 100 mark. I can honestly say though that my scores do not accurately reflect my game, at least in my opinion. Let me explain.

Most of my scores on each hole are bogeys or double bogeys. I manage to get a couple of pars per round, and once in a while I get real lucky and get a birdie or two. It’s those damn blow up holes that bite me in the ass every round! You know the ones; you’re truckin’ along just fine, hitting the ball not too bad and posting scores of one or two over par. All of a sudden for one hole, your game goes south on a fast train to Georgia.

Your drive has every worm on the fairway scurrying for cover and skitters about fifty yards down the fairway. You shank your 3 iron, chip the ball back onto the fairway from the trees, and top your approach shot. You are now lying four on a par four and you’re not even dancing yet. Your short bump and run, runs more than it bumps  and you end up on the other side of the green in a bunker. You curse every Scotsman that was ever born as you barely hack the ball back onto the green, leaving yourself a 50 foot putt for triple bogey.

You line up your putt, take your stroke, and to your amazement the green breaks left instead of right leaving you feeling like an illiterate golfer because you can’t read greens. Two more putts and the bleeding finally stops. You pluck your ball from the cup and curse the Scots again because Lord knows, a few more must have been born since you last cursed them from the sand trap.

You mark a 9 on the scorecard and know in your heart that 100 will not be broken this day. You also know that, despite feeling like a man who just walked in on his girlfriend and best friend, all will be forgiven and you will be back. Like the Sirens of the sea, the lure and enchantment of the game is too magnetic to resist. Besides, next game, you will for sure break 100.

The first thing I need to do is eliminate those one or two holes per game with the blow up scores to bring my game into the mid to low nineties. From there, it is just a matter of hard work and perseverance. Maybe I am being naive but my theory is, if you can par one hole, there is no reason you can’t par the next hole, and so on, and so on, and so on. The other thing that has me believing it’s possible to shoot par, is my performance on the driving range. If I ever figure out how to take my range ball striking to the course, I swear to the good Lord above I would give Tiger a run for his money.

There you have it, the reason I started aquestforpar.com because, I am on a quest for par. I may have to admit defeat one day, but if I do figure this damn game out and am successful in my quest, it should give hope to hackers everywhere. And believe me, if a hack like me ever experiences the thrill of shooting par, anyone who ever picks up a club has the potential to do the same.

May the Golf Gods be kind to you,
Howard Jaymes

In my last installment I wrote that the next chapter in my saga was to be called “The Four Musketeers”, I have, however, decided to switch horses in the middle of the stream. I will leave it at that for now, but in a later post I will explain why I broke a cardinal rule of the great American Cowboy.

In the future, I will refrain from putting a title to a post before I have written it. I know that in the grand scheme of things it is a relatively moot point and that, as the author I am free to use my poetic license as I see fit. I have long known that anal retentiveness is one of my lesser traits, and it is this trait that is responsible for my burning need to set the record straight.

I wrote my last two posts in this series with a humorous slant, and I hope I succeeded in entertaining you. This post adopts a more serious tone and comes from the heart.

Without further logorrhea, I present you with:

Heroes and Friends!

The value of material possessions which society seems to measure us by, have a defined worth. Financially, we are measured by our net worth, which is also definable. The value of true and loyal friendship, however, is immeasurable. True friends are as rare as left-handed golfers on the PGA tour, yet every weekend I get to play golf with three left-handed PGA tour players.

Gerard and I have been friends for 25 years, exactly as long as I have worked at the company that provides me with the income to play the game I love.  Almost from the very first day I worked at Purolator Courier,  I struck up a friendship with Gerard. The friendship came easily and naturally, and over the years, as we came to know more about each other,  the friendship grew stronger.

In everyone’s lives, there are times of happiness and times of conflict; there are no exceptions to this part of the human experience. It is in times of conflict that we need our friends the most, and Gerard has been one of the people I turn to when I need a friend to lean on.

Terry joined our foursome in 2004 and very quickly became friends with Gerard and me. I have a deep admiration for Terry and an even deeper appreciation of his friendship. There is not a doubt in my heart that if I ever needed anything, he would be there to help. Likewise, if Terry ever needed my help, I would be there for him.

Before I introduce the fourth musketeer, I would like to go off on a rant about heroes.

I believe that we live in a society of misplaced values when it comes to the idolization of people we deem to be heroes. We put on pedestals individuals we worship because they happen to be the best at what they do. NHL hockey stars, Major league baseball stars, football stars, basketball stars, and yes, even golf stars. We idolize movie stars, singers, entertainers, the rich, the successful, and the powerful.

Hell, we even idolize wanna-be stars. For proof of this just tune in to American Idol and listen to the audience go ballistic when their favorite performers take the stage in an attempt to croon their way to the final vocal duel.

The hallowed hall of heroes is littered with less than stellar examples of these potential role models as well. O. J. Simpson, Mike Tyson, Kobe Bryant, Michael Vick, Darryl Strawberry, Amy Winehouse, Robert Downey Jr., Pete Doherty, Robert Blake, Bobby Brown; the list goes on.

Don’t get me wrong, I know these people are human and make mistakes, and that’s okay; I empathize with them for that. But even when O.J. Simpson was on trial for the brutal murders of Nicole, Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman, fans gathered in the streets chanting, “We love you O. J.!” Adoring fans will continue to bestow adulation upon Kobe Bryant; Bobby Brown will easily score points with adoring female fans; and Michael Vick will be back in the spotlight one day soon and will be back up on his appointed pedestal.

Then there is the TV show that is the epitome of all that is wrong with hero worship, Paris Hilton’s, My New BFF. The shameless pandering by flighty females vying to be her Best Friend Forever is a study of human nature at it’s worst. Do these women really believe that if they win the sycophant race they will actually become Paris Hilton’s life long friend? And what about the spoiled multimillionaire athletes who defiantly cross their arms and pout when they want out of a legally signed contract? Whatever happened to honor?

Look, I realize we live in a diverse world and that sports and entertainment, especially when delivered at an elevated level of perfection, play an important role in the social dynamics of our society. Nor will I deny that I admire and stand in awe of Tiger Woods and his abilities on the golf course, but know this: The admiration is not only for his talent, but also for his character and personality.

In fact, the list of people deserving of our admiration is probably longer than the list of non-deserving individuals, and while I may admire these role models, they are not my heroes.

True heroes

My heroes are the soldiers fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan. My heroes are the firemen who ran into the World Trade Centers when everybody else was running out. My heroes are the police and fire fighters who live and work in the cities and towns we live in. My heroes are the EMTs, the doctors, the nurses, and anyone else who works in triage centers and hospitals around the world saving lives and comforting the ill. My heroes are the people who work for free in third world countries, doing their small part to make the world a better place.

My personal heroes are my Son-in-law, Steve, for being a responsible husband and parent; my daughter, Melanie, for having fought tough battles in her life, only to stand victorious on the battlefield with a thriving and successful family and business; my grandsons Jesse and Riley, for being great kids with a passion for music.

My personal heroes are my Son-in law, Rob, a military man who has helped fight the good fight in Afghanistan; my daughter, Jodie, who deals with the stress of day-to-day life, work, and a diabetic son; my grandson, Tyler, a wonderful kid who gets up every morning and stares diabetes in the face. It is something he will have to do for the rest of his life.

My personal heroes are my niece, Terena, who bravely faced Cancer and never once complained right up until the day she lost the battle; and, of course, my good friend, Wayne, the last person to join our group.

Wayne is my hero because he is a good man with a remarkable devotion to his wife and family. His beautiful wife, Susan, has multiple sclerosis and Wayne is her primary caregiver. I do not know or understand the commitment of such a responsibility, but I do know that his commitment comes from a devoted love for her and not just from being a dutiful husband. I know this because in one of our many conversations about life, Wayne told me, “I don’t know what I would do if something ever happened to her. I would be so lost.”

Wayne is also my hero for less noble reasons. He shoots a pretty decent game of golf. In fact, he is the best golfer in our group. I have made it my mission in life to one day beat him at this wonderful game we play that ironically spells flog backwards. I am beginning to believe that it will never happen, but I will never give up trying.

I treasure my time spent golfing, but I treasure more the heroes in my life, and the bonds of friendship I have with my three friends.

This post is dedicated to my heroes and friends.

Continued from,
“The Monkey on my back!”

Meanwhile back home on the range trouble was brewing in paradise, an emotional wedge had grown between my girlfriend  and I and our relationship had become as cold as a snowman in the dead of winter. I tried to bunker down and wait out the storm but finally decided to pull the pin, one last bump and I had to run. They say  the first cut is the deepest and in my case it was true. We had played our eighteen holes and we didn’t even bother to meet at the 19th hole to rehash our game, our relationship had run it’s course.

It was 2004; a new social media site that would come to be known world wide as facebook was born, Wiarton Willie predicted six more weeks of winter, John Kerry won the Democratic Party Presidential nomination, the last Oldsmobile rolled of the assembly line in Lansing, Michigan and Phil Michelson finally shook the monkey off his back by winning his first major. On the 18th hole, Phil drained a 15 foot birdie putt for a one stroke victory over Ernie Els to win a green jacket at The Masters and erase the title as the best player to never win a major. My claim to fame for 2004 was a failed relationship.

Suddenly I had a lot of idle time on my hands and Gerard, a good friend of mine at work and a member of our original foursome, approached me and suggested we start golfing again. My mood swings were up and down because of the break up and I needed a distraction to take my mind off what I considered to be an emotional handicap. I was on the fringe of making a decision to return to the game anyway and, I was already set up with all the equipment I needed.

The obvious thing to do was a no brainer. We recruited Terry, another friend from work and faster than a Caddie CTS race car, we booked a tee time at a local course.

At The Course.

I stepped up to the ball and nervously took my stance wondering just how much I had forgotten in eleven years. I took a deep breath, waggled the driver and took my swing. The ball rocketed off the tee, sailed gracefully through the air and split the fairway setting my self up for an easy approach shot with a short iron.

I smiled like a man who just won the lottery as we walked down the fairway to take our second shots and as we walked, I  felt a slight tug on the back of my pants as if a small animal had jumped up and  attached itself to the bottom of my pant leg. I looked down, saw nothing, shook my leg a little to get rid of the imaginary creature and continued my walk down the fairway. When we got to the first green, I felt the creature  slowly scramble up my pant leg and by the time we reached the third fairway it had  settled onto my back like a comfortable old shirt, the monkey had returned.

As we walked the course enjoying the sunshine, the great outdoors, the comaraderie, the jokes and the laughter, I could not believe I had abandoned this extraordinary pass time  that was not only a grand and noble  game, but a homage to male bonding. I could not believe that for eleven years I had walked away from a game I loved so much, and at that precise moment I took a silent, solemn vow to never give up the game again. There was still a link missing in the chain however.

There are some who believe that it goes against the grain of all that is sacred about golf that true golfing Nirvana is not attained until a foursome of friends become one, and I am one of those people. I could not imagine walking on to a course every weekend by myself and hooking up with complete strangers to play a round of golf.

Lonelier still would be to play the game all by oneself,  with my luck I would get a hole in one, and oh the tragedy it would be to experience the ultimate shot in golf and have no one to celebrate with. I honestly  believe I would not even bother to tell anyone because every time I recounted the story  I would feel empty and hollow inside and I would wonder if people truly believed I had accomplished the rarest shot in golf.

Likewise, a duo or trio hooked up with strangers changes the mix, the conversation changes, the comfort level is not as relaxed. The ideal situation to play golf in,  is to be a part of a regular foursome of friends willing to meet on the battlefield at the appointed times, in order  to slay the bogey man and forge the bonds of friendship. We needed to find a fourth gladiator for our group!

Next post; The Four Musketeers!

Hello Blogosphere,

My name is Howard, and I am a golfaholic.

I have a mild addiction to golf, I love to play golf, watch golf, read about golf, talk about golf, tweet about golf and now, I will be blogging about golf. I even dream about golf, mostly I dream that one day, I will actually be good at it. It doesn’t sound like a mild addiction, does it?

I played my first game of golf in the summer of 1987 and while it wasn’t exactly love at first flight, the lure of the game slowly tugged at those places in the brain where our addictions lay dormant, waiting for that first taste of the succulent sweet nectar of whatever forbidden fruit caresses the spot that awakens the inner voice that softly and seductively whispers, “resistance is futile!”

I guess it could be worse, the addiction could be crack cocaine or meth, but then again, both combined would probably be cheaper than a golf addiction. It didn’t take long to realize that the green left over from my paychecks was slowly being chipped away until my take home pay was literally sliced in half. Life got rough for awhile as food, clothing and shelter took a back seat to my addiction and I fell deeper and deeper into the trap. Be fore I knew it, I had puttered away most of my life’s savings to feed my growing and out of control addiction.

Oh, I looked at the Canadian Tire and Kmart starter sets with their enticing $249.00 price tags, I even scanned the classifieds for used sets, but in my drive to be the best that I could possibly be, I bought the best that I could possibly buy. Power Built TPC irons, Taylor Made driver and woods, Bag Boy folding golf cart, Wilson golf bag, Pinnacle golf balls, FootJoy golf shoes, gloves, tees, markers, divot repair tools, doodads, thig-a-ma-jigs, widgets, gizmos and a myriad of training devices whose makers faithfully promised would miraculously mold me into the next Arnold Palmer.

Then of course, I had to look like a golfer and since tee shirts and jeans are not appropriate attire on most golf courses, I had to buy a whole new wardrobe. Golf pants, golf shorts, golf shirts, socks, belts and hats, I was going in the hole fast and the crazy thing was, I hadn’t even broken 120 yet.

Then came green fees, the one dollar bets for longest drives and closest to the pin, and the beers and lunches at the 19th hole where our fearless foursome of friends would sit and regale each other with recaps of the shots that would keep us coming back for more; that drive on the fourth hole that found the middle of the fairway, or that long putt on seven that rimmed the cup and dropped to save double bogey, rare occurrences for our rookie group.

You would think by now the hazard lights and red flags would have gone off in my head and I would have clued into the fact that I was hopelessly hooked but, like most addicts I lived in denial. Luckily, I was single at the time and did not have to watch my marriage go down in flames because of my addiction. Draw your own conclusions, but at least I didn’t have to deliver a pitch every weekend to an angry wife as to why I deserved to be allowed to play, or find a fair way to compensate her for my habitual weekend absence from our marriage. Better yet, I never had to worry about getting a hot iron delivered in angry spousal frustration to the side of the head, or a club from a piece of wood to the side of the head without the imprint of an iron on it because I got caught in a bad lie about where I was. As any married man will attest, wives everywhere seem to always have a little birdie that tells them what is really going on.

In 1992, I bought my first house and the money and time available for golf became a rare commodity. Our foursome was starting to drift apart and what would turn out to be an eleven year break from my addiction began. I had broken a hundred the year before for the first time and was starting to post consistent scores in the high nineties and with great reluctance, I relegated my clubs to the storage room. What seemed like hundreds of games, millions of cuss words, dozens upon dozens of lost balls and a steady drain of money from the pocket book finally rolled to a stop.

There were good times to lament as well, long walks over beautifully manicured courses on hot summer days. The comaraderie, jokes and quick wit shared by four friends loyal to the tee times, even if it meant getting up at the ungodly hour of 4:00 am to make it to a booked tee time of 5:00 am . The beers and banter shared on the 19th hole where bragging right were harder to come by because we had all improved; someone always had a longer drive or more dramatic putt.

There was the thrill and personal pride of watching the flight of a perfect drive and its soft landing 250 yards away in the middle of the fairway. The graceful beauty of an approach shot with a seven iron to within four feet of the pin. The exhilaration and excitement of draining a 50 foot putt for birdie as you pumped your fist in victory, because for that one brief moment in time, you felt like Tiger Woods. Those moments were few and far between but were starting to happen more often.

As the memories of those first five fabulous years of my foray into golf faded from my mind like the graceful flight of an eagle gliding slowly away, I settled into my new life as the keeper of my castle. Probably because I had more time to devote to other areas of my life, I found a girlfriend to spend time with as well. It would be eleven long years before I would feel the urge to pull my clubs out of retirement and find my way back to the game I loved, but when that finally happened, I swore on my ex girlfriends new boyfriends future grave that; as long as my body was capable of swinging the club with some degree of efficiency, I would never, ever give up the game again.

Did I mention I have a mild addiction to golf?

To be continued………..