I had several choices on Saturday. Clean the garage, wash the car or go to the golf store and waste hours looking at a bunch of stuff I couldn’t afford.
It was crowded at the golf store. I like it when it’s that way. The salespeople1 are too busy to pester2 you, and you can play with the putters all day long. I have won many imaginary tournaments on that little carpeted green.
I was heading to the front of the store to forage3 in the “experienced” golf ball jar when I saw three familiar kids-mine-coming in the front door. At first I assumed my wife sent them on a search party and that I’d have to clean the garage after all. Then I saw the sign over the checkout4 stand, “Ask About Our Father’s Day Specials.” They were here to buy me a gift! Not another Three Stooges tie. Not another Handy Mitt5, the greatest car-washing aid since water, but a golf gift. Cool.
I ducked down behind the shoe mirror as they headed toward the golf ball section. Would they buy the Tour Edition Titleists? Probably not without help. I dashed down the club display aisle6 and slipped behind the mountain of shimmering7 red and gold boxes.
“What about these yellow balls?” I heard my youngest child ask.
“Or these orange ones?” my daughter added.
I poked8 until a box of Titleists fell on the floor a few feet from them.
“Whoa, dude. This whole thing could fall,” said my older son.
“Yeah. Let’s look somewhere else.”
Darn. I followed in a crouched9 position as they walked slowly by the golf bags and over to the glove display. Perfect. One of those double-thick, imported gloves with the removable ball marker. They walked right by. Okay. Maybe they’ll pick out one of those electronic distance calculators or a six-pack holder10. They ambled11 on.
Finally, they entered the clothing section and headed for a rack full of Ralph Lauren Polo shirts. Yes! I could already picture myself standing12 in the fairway, contemplating13 my approach shot, while the others in my group commented on my impeccable taste.
“Hey. Look over here.” The enthusiasm in my daughter’s voice meant they had found the perfect gift. I felt bad that they were going to spend all that money, but who was I to question their immeasurable affection?
“Cool. And they’re cheap, too.”
Cheap? I peeked14 through some women’s sweaters. My daughter was holding up a pair of pink polyester pants that had been on the clearance15 rack since day one.
“And we could get this to go with it.” My older son held up a lime-green mesh16 shirt.
I gasped17 audibly. They looked in my direction, so I slipped further back into women’s wear, bumping into the store manager.
“Just browsing,” I whispered.
He looked at me strangely and I realized I was holding a pair of extra large women’s shorts and an athletic18 bra. Behind me I hear, “Look. The final touch.”
I got down on all fours and struck my head out. My youngest son was holding up a hat that said “Tee-riffic Golfer” in type large enough to see four blocks away.
“But it’s red,” my younger son said. “Does that matter?”
“Naw,” said my daughter. .”Golfers always dress weird19.”
I watched them walk toward the front, then I turned and looked at the manager. “I don’t suppose…?”
“Nope. All sales final. Besides, you’d break their hearts.”
I slept in on Sunday. At about nine they marched into the room, placed a package on my chest and said, “Happy Father’s Day.”
I tore the wrapping slowly, hoping I could muster20 up enough excitement when I held up that hat. But the package contained only a note.
“Look beside you,” it said.
I turned slowly and there on the pillow was one of my favorite putters from the golf store.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“Dude,” said my older son. “We, like, knew you were there. Your car was parked out front.”
“Are you disappointed?” my daughter asked.
“No! This is perfect.” I stroked my new putter lovingly. “So,” I laughed. “Guess they let you take those dreadful pink pants back, huh?”
Just then my wife entered the bedroom carrying a carefully wrapped package.
“Ahhh. Not exactly…”
