I thought I'd try and put some " good humor" to all this...
This was 3-4 years ago...I was in France, with time on my side; and a nickel in my pocket...I phoned my father, back in A-Merry-Kay; and told him to meet me in Belfast City, at the Duke of York Pub, come 2 weeks time...and to bring his sticks. It was summertime in Chicago, the old teacher had time on his side...and my nickel in his pocket.
We met at around high noon, on a Sunday, he was out in the alley standing tall when I walked around the corner.
To County Down we were going ( I was told in the Aran Isles on my way up that there was nothing "Royal" about it )
Anyway, I had set up the proper tee times and a "looper" to carry the Old Man's Powerbuilt blades...the one's from '77.
He wanted nothing to do with it, an old South Side stick he was...he'd carry his own clubs.
Sean, the looper on hand, was bright and early, ginger and all...." Sean, me and you," I said.
( If there's a looper available, I always try to fire him, her...golf etiquette.)
So, the Old Man's up in the hills, by hole 2,3,4... lugging his weapons around, looking at barbershop poles in the distance, cracking 5 irons whenever he can.
We get to great 9th tee, and my father ask's Sean a question:
"Sean, what am I aiming for ?"
Sean nudges me on the elbow, winks, and looks at my Dad and gives the greatest response, upon the greatest hole...
" Why don't you ask your f'ooking caddy ?"
To loopers, to Sean...