I turned 70 this summer, and those are tough words to read and write.
The number itself has an ominous element to it, and whether spoken or written it serves as a stark reminder to those who have reached that milestone that we are not only on the back nine of life but also getting pretty close to the clubhouse.
Being 70 also makes me think of developments in my golf life that reaffirm that I am no spring chicken anymore.
Like now carrying a 9-wood – and having far fewer irons in my bag than I once did.
I was not exactly displeased when I shot 75 on my 70th birthday a couple of months ago and the thought of shooting my age crept into my consciousness for the very first time.
I need reading glasses to discern the hole and course yardages on the scorecards these days. I also do my best not to play markers that measure more than 6,200 yards. That way, I can avoid hitting fairway woods and hybrids all day into greens designed to accept much higher-lofted clubs.
I suppose there is a silver lining to being able to move to a forward tee for a competition on those occasions when my handicap and age add up to a certain number. And I was not exactly displeased when I shot 75 on my 70th birthday a couple of months ago and the thought of shooting my age crept into my consciousness for the very first time. That would be cool, I said to myself. And I appreciate the added incentive that possibility has given me every round I have played since then.
But I still hear the voice in my head saying that only old guys even ponder such possibilities.
The good news, I suppose, is despite living a life almost as recklessly at times as Keith Richards, I did make it to 70. And I am still playing lots of golf, walking most of my rounds and relishing the good company of my golf mates along the way and the places I am able to tee it up.
Maybe it is just a number after all.
John Steinbreder
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