The fourth of a five-part series
2016 was a pivotal year, for better and for worse. Our mom—I am the oldest of six—passed away on the last day of April of that year. She was 74 years old, and had been diagnosed with stage 4 cancer only three weeks prior to her passing. The shock of her sudden passing still lingers as I write this more than ten years later.
She had a full life, but her final stage exit was rough for all of us. My main coping mechanism—1,000 miles away in Austin from Chicago—was straight-up denial. I’m serious. For the first six months after she passed, I would tell myself what happened hadn’t happened.
Everybody, especially her sixteen grandchildren, loved Mary Ann, aka “Grannie Annie.” She was positive but realistic, generous with her time and talents, skilled in the kitchen and in her sewing room, and she had an easy-going demeanor. That she had quietly held court as the emotional center of our large extended family became painfully obvious after she was gone. Linked here is a story—about a dresser she refinished—that reveals her persistence and charm.
My five siblings and I all played sports growing up—basketball, football, baseball, track, volleyball. Sibling number six, Greg, is ten years younger than me. When I was playing golf in high school, he would beg me to take him out to the golf course. Of course, I obliged. He had a naturally good swing as a kid. Later, he also played golf at Prospect High School for the same coach that I played for, cracking the varsity lineup as a sophomore. Decades later, he’s still got a great swing, but he’s had some back issues along the way, so he doesn’t play as much anymore. Besides, he’s not quite as “Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs” for golf as his oldest brother. (I’ll admit to being a grinder. I love to practice golf. You name it, and I’m in: full swing, half swing, chipping, putting, pitching. Lezgo.)
Most of our athletic genes came from Mom. She could bowl over 200 back in the day, and at 55 she took up golf and could hit the ball fairly well. I don’t recommend anyone taking up golf as an adult. It’s simply too hard of a game, but Mom had fun hanging with the other ladies in a summer 9-hole golf league at a nearby course. Dad and I helped Mom pick out a new set of sticks for her 74th birthday in 2015. We then played a round together at MP, the first time I ever played a round with both Mom and Dad. Little did we know: first round, last round.
A lot of folks assume I followed in my dad’s footsteps when I went to seminary to become a pastor. Truth be told, my dad never suggested that I go to seminary. He was smart enough to not do that. During my senior year of college, I planned to go to grad school either in psychology or social work. It was my mom who suggested, if I wanted to work in the field of “social service,” that I consider seminary. It made perfect sense when she said it.
My dad, who like me, is a Lutheran pastor, forged an entire career in the field of substance abuse rehabilitation as a chaplain and administrator. He did great and important work for close to 50 years in the field. I, on the other hand, went to South America as a main part of my seminary education to learn el bendito Español, enabling me to work bilingually. When my mom, who gave me the green light to go to seminary, passed away in 2016, I had served two dual-language parishes in Texas for a total of twenty-five years. There was a feeling of completeness and finished-ness.
I resigned (it wasn’t retirement) my position at the church I was serving in Austin, and Denise gave me permission to take a “self-imposed” (read: unpaid) sabbatical. For the next fifteen months, I researched and wrote what became There is a Balm in Huntsville. Writing the book was a great experience: drilling down on a compelling subject with research and interviews, learning a whole bunch of what I hadn’t known before, and crafting a manuscript that was worthy of publication. The book—produced with tons of help from others who were skilled in the process—has the ability to not only inspire but also to change hearts and minds.
When the calendar turned to 2017—in the midst of the above personal and professional changes—I decided that it was time to take a break from my golf grind for two main reasons.
Reason number one: At 55 years of age, my game was starting to slip just a bit. I realized that my ability had crested, and that I was on the downside of my best playing days. No biggie—aging happens—it wasn’t unexpected. I was quite happy to still be playing as a good stick into my fifties. More on this below.
Reason number two: Denise was still working as a paralegal, and I wasn’t going to be the guy who wasn’t bringing in a steady paycheck while still regularly teeing it up.
How was work, honey?
How was golf, you friggin’ slacker?
The Geezer
I was happy to turn 30. We lived in Houston at the time, and I was a young pastor. Yes, I worked with the high school youth, but most of my congregants were older than me. Quite a lot older—especially from the vantage point of the church’s pulpit, which I ascended twice a month or so. Turning 30 gave me more experience cred with the older folks. All good.
Turning 40? No worries! Denise and I were parents of three—with our oldest, Lauren, in high school—and we lived in Austin. Life was grand. We still looked good and we had plenty of spunk.
Turning 50, however, was a different story. About a year and a half before hitting 50, I began to obsess on the upcoming age-category change and what it (supposedly) meant. My hairline was thinning and my belly wasn’t as tight as it used to be. Surface stuff, admittedly. Deeper, however, I was having a bit of an existential crisis. How the hell did I get on the doorstep of fifty years old? Dang—it made me realize that a lot of my identity was based in being younger.
Fifty came in December 2011. I survived the arrival of this grey milestone and claimed a saving grace: I was eligible to play in the Austin Men’s City Senior, a separate tournament for us older guys. I’d get to move up to the blue tees, and everyone I was competing against was my age or older—this was a tournament I could actually win.
Men’s City Senior, a two-round tourney without a cut, is always played in mid-September, typically at MoWilly. As of September 1, 2012, however, city crews were demolishing MoWilly’s old clubhouse and giving its 18 holes a serious makeover. “The Geezer,” as I dubbed the tourney, would be played that fall at Muny.
Good ol’ Muny, a track that I loved giving the love to! Since my 66 at Muny in the 2008 Men’s City, I had fired a handful of below par rounds on the 6001-yard track with the tricky greens. And I came into my first “Geezer” with confidence.
The previous month, in Men’s City—with the young guys—I played its first round at Jimmy Clay and carded a one-under 71. At the end of that day’s play, I was tied for 11th. The next day I was to play Muny as all 140 participants flipped courses. I didn’t make it to my second-round tee time, however. My golf group knows all the details: I overhydrated—too much straight water—during the 100* first-round on Thursday. I didn’t feel good after the round and ended up in the hospital that night with low potassium. I had to withdraw from the tourney. A nephrologist (kidney doctor) came in my room Friday morning to discharge me. “Mr. Anderson,” he said, “you have a drinking problem.”
“How’s that?” I questioned.
“Don’t drink straight water the next time you’re on the golf course —Gatorade and bananas!”
An important lesson learned, and these doctor’s orders I have since heeded.
But it was a huge regret in my personal golf realm as I could have had a great showing in Men’s City that year. The last two rounds were to be played on Kizer, a track I’m very comfortable with. Son of a buck.
Six weeks later, with electrolyte tablets and bananas in the side pocket of my golf bag, I teed it up at Muny on September 22, 2012 for my inaugural showing in The Geezer. An eagle and two birds propelled me to an even-par 71, which placed me tied for fourth, three shots behind the leader. But on the second and final day, I couldn’t get much cooking. A lone birdie couldn’t mitigate the damage from five bogeys in a row in the middle of the round and my 77 finished me in a tie for ninth place.
The following summer, I was out at Muny with my guys Hodges and Robbins. We started on the 10th tee that day. After an opening par, I birdied the next four holes. I made the turn in 33 strokes, at two under. As I prepared to hit my tee ball on #1, a voice came over the loudspeaker from the pro shop: “Now on the first tee, Mr. 66!”
My good showing in Men’s City in 2008 merited me this other nickname, courtesy of Erik Lopez, who worked in the CK pro shop at that time. Erik was now the head pro at Muny, and his was the voice over the loudspeaker that day. I stepped back from my ball, looked in the direction of the pro shop, pointed at Erik with a smile and gave him a thumbs up.
I played the front side—my final nine holes that day—in very clean fashion: six pars and three birds. Matching 33s to verify the 66 I had shot in Men’s City five years prior. Obviously, Erik’s callout was the suggestion power I needed that day.
And guess what happened the next time I teed it up? Just like in 2008, I followed up this stellar 66 with another 80—this time at my beloved Roy Kizer track. Success followed by—not so much by humiliation—but forced humility. There’s a reason why you don’t see a whole lot of trash talking in golf. As those of us who tee it up know, braggadocio in golf is a sure-fire formula for failure. Before the last putt falls, the golf gods simply don’t allow for a whole lot of chest-thumping.
That fall, The Geezer, version 2013, was back at the new and improved MoWilly. I opened with a one-over 73, in a tie for second with four other golfers, one shot back. Again, on day two, I couldn’t get a whole lot cooking and my 75 finished me in a tie for third place, six shots behind the winner.
The following year, I played really well and tied for third again, four shots behind the trophy bearer. I shot 71-72 (-1), and to this day, the 2014 Geezer is the only tourney where I’ve finished under par.
In 2015, I started poorly with a 78, but finished strong with a one-under 71, tying two others for low round of the day. It vaulted me into a tie for tenth place.
The calendar then turned to 2016, the year which I earlier described as “pivotal.”
After Mike Marak helped me get my USGA (GHIN) handicap to scratch in the fall of 2005, I kept that streak going every subsequent late summer or fall—getting to 0.0—for the next nine years in a row. I posted my best handicap ever (+1.0) in the fall of 2011. Most golfers, even good ones, have some fluctuation in their handicap number. The only golfers who have a static handicap are those who don’t post their current scores.
For context, touring pro golfers, if they were to keep an official handicap (most of them don’t), would be in the range of +5 to +8. Yes, they are that good, levels above and beyond amateurs like me and you. It was estimated that Tiger Woods, in his prime, would have played to a +10.
Like clockwork, I’d play my worst golf every winter and my best in the summer and fall. In the summer and fall of 2015, my handicap bested out at 1.2. It was the first year I didn’t make it to scratch since 2005. My scratch streak was over after ten years. In the fall of 2016, I bested out at 1.0. The numbers don’t lie, especially in golf. My best playing days were behind me.
In August of 2016, I teed it up for Men’s City with the younger guys. My mom had passed a few months earlier. By this time, I knew I’d be resigning from my congregation at the end of the year, but Denise and I were the only ones who knew. I was thinking that this could be my last go-around in Men’s City. I was 55 years old and I still had plenty of game, but not as much as I had previously.
After two mediocre rounds at Muny (75) and MoWilly (78), I made the cut by one shot. That made it ten years in a row where I didn’t get cut in Men’s City, including the “Justified Withdrawal” (JW is an actual golf term) that I earned after the 71 on Jimmy Clay in 2012.
I played decently—77—in the third round of Men’s City at Grey Rock, a course that favors a shot I have to work at to hit, a fade. The final round was to be played at Jimmy Clay where its back tees stretch out to 6931 yards. Per usual, I wore my final round Loudmouth shorts (a la John Daly). It was hot and the wind was blowing, but I played well. I came to #18, a 474-yard beast with water most of the way left and water right on the approach, at 2-over par for the day. I hit the green in regulation and grinded out a par, two-putting from fifty feet. Denise and Mitch came to watch me finish. My 74 put me in a tie for 43rd; and among those players 50 and older (there were twelve of us who made the cut), I finished fifth. Not too bad at all. As I walked with Denise and Mitch in the parking lot to my car, I had a fleeting feeling that this could have been my last Men’s City.
Six weeks later, I teed it up for the 2016 Geezer, again competed at MoWilly. A mediocre start of 77 put me in 27th place, in the bottom half of the field. I got things cooking, however, on day two. Again, Denise came out to watch, and she walked up and down those finishing hills at MoWilly with me. I was holding steady at +1 after 15 holes on a busy scorecard day. I already had three birds, but they were bested by four bogeys. I birdied #16, a right-to-left par 4 that rewards a drive that draws, my bread and butter move off the tee. I chipped close for tap-in bird on #17, the back-up-the-hill par 5, and then came to the straight-away #18 at one-under. I found the fairway with my drive, leaving me 113 yards to a middle, right pin. Perfect distance for my 52* Mizuno gap wedge, and I niced it to fifteen feet. Boom. I drained the putt which gave me three closing birds for a beautiful, red 70. It got me to T12 for the tourney, and as Denise and I left the scoreboard hut to go home, I had a feeling like I had played in my last tourney for a while. It was the perfect place to stop.
As I stated earlier, I wasn’t verklempt about taking a break from my golf grind. I had a great run, and it certainly wasn’t over. I wasn’t “quitting” golf, but backing off. And this wouldn’t be my first time taking a break, as I didn’t touch a club for two years while we lived in Perú. It was simply time to take a break. It felt just fine.
I played a final round on my city golf pass on January 11, 2017 from the tips at MoWilly. It was windy, but I coaxed four birds out of my TA3s and TaylorMade Rossa putter for a 73. I played a few stray rounds the rest of that year and into 2018.
For Memorial Day weekend 2018, we went up to Champaign, Illinois for the 90th birthday celebration of Denise’s mom, aka “Grandma June.” I was mostly done with writing my book, and I had started a new job as director of a church-based nonprofit organization. I put in some prep work on the range and putting green for a couple of weeks prior to the trip. I looked forward to teeing it up with my Denise-side-of-the-fam golf buds (and good sticks) Kenny B. and Keith. We played Stone Creek Golf Club (now Atkins Golf Club, the home of the University of Illinois men’s and women’s teams) and then, the next day, Urbana Country Club. Denise’s folks were longtime members at Urbana CC, and I’ve enjoyed playing the course since 1983. I shot a 77 or 78 with a few birds that second day with Kenny and Keith. It was nice to keep it under 80 after not having played all that much the previous year or so.
We flew home to Austin, and I placed my sticks in their usual haunt in the trunk of my Honda Accord. There they stayed for the rest of 2018, with an occasional emergence for a bucket of balls or a rare round. The same held for all of 2019. Then Covid hit . . .
Click here for My Golf Story – Part V
T. Carlos “Tim” Anderson – I’m a Protestant minister and Director of Austin City Lutherans (ACL), an organization of partners in Austin, Texas working together to serve low-income individuals and families.
T. Carlos Anderson 