For those of us deep into the back nine of our lives, having one last go at an eclectic combination of holes from another lifetime has only limited allure. The longer holes - thinking #16 at NGLA into the breeze - are now exhausting and require coaxing two mighty blows out of that constricted swipe I pretend is a legitimate golf swing.
The dainty dandies - #15 at Cypress, the Dell, #11 at Pac Dunes - are more likely to produce a shank, followed by an embarrassing series of spastic twitches in which a picture of Frosty on the scorecard is more likely than Colonel Bogey.
So, if we are to dive into the Time Tunnel (TV reference from the B&W era), my last round is with Dad, circa 1972 - on the old Ocean Course at Olympic. I had a trusty set of Orlimar woods, my faithful putter, hand-me-down irons and Faultless golf balls, stuffed into a red leather golf bag.
Adult life was far in the future and each hole was its own adventure - there was no need to mentally project your score at the turn and the hole looked like a bucket with suction pumps.
Dad would sneak some Red Man, thinking (wrongly) that Mom would not notice the stains on his shoes and pants. The fog cascaded over the bluffs and Fidel, the kindly old Pilipino bartender, always snuck free milkshakes to the junior members.
Life was simple, pure and my parents laughed when I took a divot out of my bedroom rug.
It never got better . . . . . . and the image in the rear-view mirror is far more comforting than the narrowing, bumpy road ahead.