Today, my friend introduced me to his younger brother. Steve, a thirty-two-year-old father of three, lives less than an hour away but I’d never met him before. It was touching to see the admiration Ron holds for his little brother. Indeed, I don’t think I’ve ever heard one sibling wax so rhapsodic over another’s accomplishments, trivial or not.
Little brother and family arrived at Ron’s house for a visit late this morning. Once the wives sufficiently corralled their kids, they granted the men a brief recreational outing. The brothers decided to hit some balls at a nearby driving range, and Ron invited me along.
Steve crushed them at the range. Apart from the pros I’d seen on TV, I couldn’t recall seeing anyone hit golf balls so far. He didn’t hook or slice them either, unlike me.
After emptying our buckets, we purchased cool beverages and shot the breeze for a bit. I commented on Steve’s golfing prowess, and Ron proudly offered some salient facts. As he explained, Steve had been golfing since he was nine and had played on his high school and college teams. At the height of his game, he owned an astonishing two handicap!
Steve shrugged off the tribute, insisting those days were long gone. “With the kids and all,” he maintained, “I’m lucky if I can get nine holes in a month.”
“My brother’s too modest, Richard,” Ron proclaimed. “Why, only last weekend, he shot five under. Isn’t that right, Steve?”
“I suppose so,” little brother sheepishly acknowledged.
“I’m all for humble Steve, but c’mon,” I interjected. “If I ever shoot five under, I’ll probably rent a billboard to advertise the fact!”
“That’s my brother for you, Richard. He’s not the bragging type,” Ron explained. “But you should’ve seen him. Not one of the hazards slowed him down! His hook shot on the eighth was incredible, and he even got two holes in one! And he did it at one of the toughest places too!”
A single hole in one occurs rarely, but two?! Needless to say, the feat impressed me, and I said as much: “That’s incredible! Which course was it, Steve? “Peachtree? Applewood? Canongate?”
He shook his head in the negative to each.
“Not Augusta?!” I exclaimed, while practically wetting myself at the thought of playing a round where the “Masters” roam.
Shaking his head again, Steve commented: “Not unless they’ve recently added a choo-choo.”
I ignored the odd non sequitur to ask the critical question: “Alright, I give up. Where’d you play?”
Staring assiduously at his Coke, he murmured: “The putt putt course at Stone Mountain.”