A few years ago, my youngest son spent a summer at home and convinced me we should be golfing every Saturday. I’m not a golfer and I don’t have clubs, so he scrounged around and put a set together for me to play with. Most of my golf bag was filled with ladies clubs, (blades at that) but I didn’t know the difference. My golfing attire? A t-shirt, shorts and black Converse high top, Chuck Taylor tennis shoes.
One busy Saturday we were waiting for our turn to tee off and a little girl on a bicycle peddled up, stopped in front of me, looked me up and down and said, “Are you a golfer?” I said, “Yes, I’m a golfer,” and after an awkward pause I said, “don’t I look like a golfer?” She looked me up and down one more time and said, “Nope.” I laughed nervously, stepped up to my ball and shanked a tremendous shot out onto the highway next to the fairway.
I thought I had my bluff in and was blending right into the whole golf scene, but apparently I couldn’t even fool a little girl on a bike.