
I was rummaging through a box the other day. It is filled with junk from what one might loosely describe as my “formative” years. Why the rummaging? Well, we are still dealing with COVID, the weather was bad and I was really bored. Anyway, I came across an old scorecard from the Newfoundland Golf Course where my family played a round of golf. Was this a memento from an epic family trip to the hinterlands of Canada? Unfortunately no, this Newfoundland is actually in Pennsylvania, somewhere in the Poconos.
Why did I save this scorecard? Well, it is documentation of the only time in recorded history that I every beat my brother at golf. Early on, we were both obsessed with golf. We played incessantly around our house, primarily using wiffle golf balls to minimize the number of windows we broke. Still, we drove our Dad crazy with the number of balls that ended up in the gutters. We also decimated our small yard by taking huge divots after each shot. It is a tribute to my parents’ tolerance that this behavior was allowed to continue. Maybe they thought we’d end up making millions on the PGA tour. Regrettably, that never happened.
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