Wednesday’s Words of Wisdom (And Whimsy)
Posted on September 24, 2025 under Wednesday’s Words of Wisdom with no comments yet
The Metchosin Massacre
It’s official.
The paint is dry.
If you are a first-time reader, you will have to read my three previous posts for this to make sense.
As you read this, I will be winging my way back to Nova Scotia. My time in rural British Columbia has been therapeutic. My arm has healed nicely and while not 100%, I can function perfectly well. I won’t be able to toss the caber anymore but that’s ok! There is still some residual bruising from both falls.
However, there is a deeper bruise that concerns me.
I haven’t played golf for almost two decades. There was a time that I was reasonably accomplished at this sport. A bad back, poor vision, and a lack of interest were all contributors to my retirement.
So it was with some astonishment that during my rehab here in Metchosin, I picked up one of Peter’s golf clubs as part of my therapy, to stretch the shoulder muscles. I gently hit wedges into a net no more than ten yards away. A week later, I went to the local driving range and hit a half bucket of balls. My therapist assured me that this form of exercise wouldn’t do any harm.
I then progressed to a small part three course. No hole was longer than 125 yards. My expectations were low, and they were met. Years of rust, in addition to the injuries to my arm, provided the backdrop to a less than stellar performance. I was playing by myself, so no one had to endure the plethora of horrible shots.
And then came the dreaded request.
“Dad. Will you come with me to play 9 holes at the Metchosin Golf Club?”
To this point, I had only been hitting pitching wedges. For those of you not familiar with the game a pitching wedge is a club meant to be hit a short distance (circa 100 yards). If I acquiesced to Peter’s request, I would be playing holes in excess of 400 yards.
It was a spectacular evening when we teed off. We had the course to ourselves. It was sunny but dusk wasn’t too far off. We had the spectacular Olympic Mountains as a backdrop.
I am going to spare you the gory details.
Mark Twain once wrote “Golf is a good walk spoiled”. That just about sums up the two hours of torture that my son and a gaggle of geese had to endure. To say that my performance was brutal would be an understatement. My shots flew off in every imaginable direction, with many of them dribbling a small handful of yards down the fairway. I truly believe that I hit more bad shots in that one round of golf than I had in my entire golf career.
Darkness set in with two holes remaining. This was a blessing for Peter and the geese. They were unable to see my wayward shots. It got so dark that we had to use the flashlights on our phones to locate and hit our shots.
The bruising on my arm was bad enough. Now I had to deal with a bruised ego.
I discovered that, unlike riding a bike, you just can’t hop back on the first tee of a golf course after a 20-year hiatus and expect to be good at this sport once again.
I played a few more times with similar results.
I won’t be joining the senior tour any time soon unless it’s a winery tour.
Here’s a small poem I penned to mark the occasion:
FLOGGING GOLF
I took up golf at the age of ten,
When dad took me to the course,
I didn’t hit any balls close to the pin,
But the game took me by force.
I owned two clubs, a five and a putter,
My shots were not long and not always straight,
Like bowling, some ended up in the gutter,
Such is a golfer’s fate.
I played and practiced day and night,
My appetite was strong,
I wouldn’t quit without a fight,
I knew that I belonged.
A champion golfer at twenty-one,
I thought I had it made,
But there are many surprises under the sun,
I couldn’t hook but I could fade.
I must have played ten thousand rounds,
At my home course in the Nish,
I knew every bounce on the ground,
In the ponds, I knew the fish.
I played for decades and became quite good,
Maybe someday play on the tour,
But many a shot ended up in the woods,
I learned to holler “Fore”.
A lasix fix would improve my sight,
I no longer needed glasses,
But things didn’t turn out right,
My golf game burns and crashes.
I didn’t touch a single club,
For twenty some odd years,
I knew that I would likely flub,
If I played while drinking beer.
I broke my arm one April morn,
The recovery was quite slow,
Would I make a comeback soon?
To Metchosin I would go.
A woman healer lived nearby,
She thought that she could fix me,
The treatments nearly made me cry,
And it wasn’t because of her fee.
One day in my recovery,
I picked up Peter’s wedge,
I hit a few balls, a discovery,
One landed in the hedge.
I played nine holes at a little par 3,
Just down the road a bit,
My arm felt good as I stood on the tee,
A fire under me lit.
Is it possible that I’ll play again?
Is it real or am I in a fog?
On this paper, these words I pen,
Golf spelled backwards is flog!
Have a great weekend.