I've come to believe that everybody's golf game has a sell-by date, after which the casein and organic compounds begin to separate, curdle and slowly rot. Sometimes the degradation goes almost unnoticed, until you get halfway through the box of plastic-wrapped granola snacks - and sometimes the back surgeon, cardiologist or oncologist breaks the news the number of ticks and clicks left on your clock are a bit more finite than you thought.
As Clint Eastwood opined, "A man's got to know his own limitations." In other words, I no longer harbor the hallucination I can enjoy a golf course longer than 6400 yards, but even that is a stretch, given (what is left of) my lower spine. I also cannot fuck a hot 30-something all night anymore either, so - like which set of tees I choose - stay in my own flight and don't pretend my constricted swipe can (even) clean somebody like Matt Cohn or Jeff Fortson's golf shoes.
Without reaching back too far, I can fly a 5-iron about 162 yards reliably, but a lot depends on who designed the golf course. In other words, even at 6300 yards, if every green is a narrow ribbon, elevated and surrounded by Nicklausian "fuck you" bunkers, 6,100 is the real number.
If there is some run-up area and the Superintendent did not soak the golf course the night before, I still hit the ball extraordinarily straight, although shot-tracer technology probably will not work, because most people hit their driver higher than I can vainly hoist a sand wedge.
The operative word I live by is FUN. Whatever tees will guarantee me a fighting chance and an enjoyable round, hobnobbing with my fellow wizards, that is where we push in the peg. Age is irrelevant, because I know plenty of 62 year-olds who can still pound it 280 off the tee and cut feather a 5-iron onto a hard green from a distance requiring 800mg of Advil, four shots of tequila and a ripped Rescue club.
The only thing that hurts a bit is playing with three other guys, around my age, who can still look credible from the Blue tees (no, not Blacks). Tottering up to the whites, with my tail between my legs, is a bit much for my monstrous ego, but better to get the embarrassment out of the way on the 1st tee than crawl up #18, exhausted, hurting and grinding over a 3-foot slider to break fucking 90.
There, I said it. Three more plasma injections in my bottom disks and I may be back swinging a club (this time) in a few months, but I guarantee you, those Senior tees are looking every bit as good as that hot chick's 60-year old Mom, sitting in the corner alone, nursing a white Zin.