Bunker Mulligan "Let us endeavor so to live that when we come to die even the undertaker will be sorry." ~Mark Twain

I had a really good group to play golf with in Dallas. We all walked and carried our bags, and all liked to get out early. We often had the first tee time on Saturdays and Sundays. We played regardless of weather. Courses close when there is frost on the ground because walking on frozen blades of grass will kill them, especially on the greens. Also, there were several holes which flooded during heavy rains. Either of these would keep us off the course, as would lightning. With those exceptions, we played. Even if we were the only ones on the course.

When you say “Dallas,” people instantly think “hot.” Yes, it gets a bit warm in the spring, summer, and fall. Thirty days of 100+ isn’t rare in North Texas. But I’d rather sweat than shiver, myself. One of the reasons we played early is that we usually finished our round before the thermometer reached that threshold.

On other days, though, a cold wind could freeze your nose off in thirty minutes. I’ll tell you about one of those days.

The four of us showed up at the pro shop as usual. The air was heavy and humid, with a frozen breeze swirling through the trees. I wore my silk long johns, along with several other layers topped off by my Gore-tex pullover and knit cap. Ready to roll. My partners were all dressed similarly. We were well-known at the club as refugees from the asylum, but even the head professional was a bit shocked to see us. “I guess today’s just a bit too rough to play.” Someone asked, “Have you closed the course?”

He laughed. “No, it’s open if anyone is crazy enough to go out and try it.”

We looked at each other. “Let’s go!” The young man who took care of the clubs and equipment said something about wanting to play. He had often mentioned going out with us some time when his schedule allowed it, so I asked the Head Pro, “Can he play with us today?” The pro looked at him with an incredulous, questioning gaze. “If he’s stupid enough, you’re welcome to take him.” Off we went.

I don’t remember how long it took for us to finish nine holes, but we moved pretty quickly. We enjoyed having the course to ourselves–no waiting for anyone ahead of us, and no being pushed by someone behind. My toes were losing their feeling, but other than that, things were just fine. The poor young bag boy wasn’t having nearly as much fun as we were. But he kept up, and only complained about the cold wind three or four times.

When we finished the ninth hole, one of the guys said, “I need to go into the locker room and get something. Anybody want some coffee or hot chocolate.” We all requested coffee–except our pick-up partner. “You’re not going to play another nine holes, are you?”

Well, as a matter of fact, yes. The rest of us headed over to the tenth tee.

The poor young tyro was torn. Should he listen to his common sense and go back into the club where the temperature was at least forty degrees warmer, or listen to an ego that wouldn’t allow him to be bested by a bunch of old men? It seemed like a long time before he decided. He was almost frozen in his tracks trying to decide which direction to walk. He finally found a compromise he could live with. “Yeah, I’ll finish out the round. But I need to go let the pro know.”

So, he went inside for a few minutes of warmth before rejoining us on the tenth tee. And he finished the round without mentioning the cold.

But he never played with us again. Dementia might be contagious.