Upon reading Kiel’s recent blog on his lack of usual winter blues, it sent me back to my days in a winter climate.

Growing up in Minnesota addicted to golf – as many of us up there are – I remember spending many cold November days pounding tees into the ground in the effort to secure as many holes under our belt as possible before the snow came.

I can recall one round in high school played in the beginning of December during one of those “warm” winters in which the snow held off until about just before Christmas. I and three friends donned winter gear, equipped with hats and choppers and headed out into the 32-degree air. We played all 18 that day, our bodies warmed slightly and only momentarily by hot chocolate at the turn. The choppers left our hands only for the few seconds it took to hit and putt; however, by about the 12th, we realized that we could putt just as well with them on, so we did.

When we left that day, I remember working tirelessly to regain the feeling in my hands. In addition, I’m pretty sure that the graphite shaft on my driver cracked during that round, as it broke early in the next season. But I’d do it again.

But why? Why will we sacrifice our body temperature and – in some cases – our equipment simply for one last romp before the clubs are damned to the basement until the first sign of green? Is it a material case of the “absence makes the heart grow fonder"? Do we miss the game simply because we can’t have it? Possibly. Or is it simply a true love for the game?

I will admit: When reading Kiel’s blog, I realized that I really have no idea what it’s like to be a baby boomer. That’s my parents. I don’t have children nor anyone to support but myself. However, I do know that I still miss my mistress when she’s gone, and I appreciate her thoroughly when she’s still here.

I now reside in Southern California and have spent the majority of the past four winters here, so the only inhibitors to golf are rain and a debilitating hangover (although we all know that the latter is no excuse to not play golf). And I never forget to thank the golf gods for that. But I do know that back in Minnesota, my dad – a baby boomer and father of six – played golf through the end of November this year, and continues to yearn for it now that the snow has come. I can only hope to retain a love like that when I dive into the “real world.”

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