Sunday Morning Coffee — June 7, 2026 — A Close Shave (from June 14, 2020)
By Roy Berger, Las Vegas, NV
(Almost seven decades of athletic mediocrity, save for some tennis success back in the 1970s/80s and a fluke game-winning walk-off base hit wearing a Yankees uniform at old guy camp in 2014, came to a sudden end on June 5, 2020. For the recreational athlete, and I use that descriptor very loosely, there are two standards to chase— a 300 game in bowling or the almost always elusive hole-in-one on the golf course. I’ll never roll 12 strikes in a row but six years ago this week I did get that ace. And then three years later a second one. Since 2020, SMC has been fortunate to gain hundreds of new readers so today on the sixth anniversary of the ace is a noteworthy time to rerun ‘A Close Shave’ for every hack chasing the same goal I did. Hope you enjoy.)
If we could have made it to December, we would have been together for fifty years. But we didn’t. It took one swing of a golf club to end the half-century romance. I’m sad but I’m also happy. I never saw the breakup coming but I’m glad it happened.
We were together longer than I’ve been with my wife and kids. We were partners for a long, long time and boy could we tell some stories.
The places we’ve been, the things we’ve seen and the stuff we can’t talk about.
Together we survived a quintuple bypass, the loss of my parents, 9/11, the birth of my kids, two marriages and one divorce. However, we just couldn’t make it through the pandemic.
We got together in December 1970 when I was a first semester freshman at the University of Miami. I was eighteen. I have pictures to prove it. It’s the longest relationship I’ve ever been in, but now it’s over.
Then, I still had three and a half years of college in front of me. Andi was just eight years old in bustling Gilbertsville, Kentucky. Cute as a button, no doubt. Jason was still a decade away from being born; Scott, thirteen years away.
The par-3 15th hole on the Mountain Course of our Red Rock Country Club was playing 126 yards last Friday. A slight breeze to our backs made the 97-degree Nevada day more than tolerable. Herbie Shainker and I were in the midst of a tight contest for two bucks against Rick Schnider and Dr. Gary Goldberg. Ten miles east of us the dice were rolling once again on the Strip but we were in our own high stakes game up here in Summerlin.
Normally from 126 yards I would use a pitching wedge. For a minute I contemplated a gap wedge, which might have been the right club with the breeze, but hit it less than crisp and the bunker in front of the green comes into play. No thank you.
Golf is a funny game. Also, an incredibly frustrating one. One day you’re on fire and then the next you’re lost. One day you’re Freddy Couples, the next you’re Freddy Flintstone.
I didn’t start playing golf until I was in my thirties. Prior to that I was a fair tennis player. I was never any good at golf but I enjoyed being out in the sun and every time I got to the tenth hole, I mean every time, I would light up a cheap cigar that would burn the entire back-nine. My cardiologist put an end to that in August 2017. I still don’t like the guy.
“You know, I’ve never seen you without a mustache,” Andi said to me early in our marriage and probably repeated it a couple of times a year for the next twenty-eight.
“Dad, are you ever going to shave off that mustache?” Scott would ask. “It’s a pretty dated look,” Jason would say to me in the 90s and every decade since.
I love my mustache. It’s me. Defines me. For the past forty-nine years we’ve traveled the sports globe together. We’ve been to the World Series, the Stanley Cup Finals, five Super Bowls, a half dozen college football championship games, the PGA, the Masters, Wimbledon, the French Open and the US Open. We were attached to each other. Inseparable, like when we were kids and a pesky, discarded piece of Bazooka got stuck to the bottom of our PF Flyers. That kind of inseparable.
Maybe a dozen people that are still in my circle have ever seen me without it. I finally told Andi and the kids, just so they would stop asking, that if I ever got a hole-in-one, the mustache comes off. That made it pretty safe because I never wanted to lose it. Ever since that mid-December 1970 day, I always sported a stache. Every day. Without exception. There wasn’t a safer or more self-assured statement I could make with the hole-in-one promise. It was a bet I would never have to honor. I was sure of it.
When I put the ball onto the tee, the wind was picking up just a little bit but I had already decided to use the pitching wedge and try to land safely on the green.
It’s easy for me to say, or want to believe, I never took golf seriously primarily because I was never any good at it. Some days I’d shoot an 85 which was an exception. More likely a 90 or 95. I’ve been to golf schools and spent thousands of dollars on individual lessons but nothing seemed to matter. I got so frustrated that the last two years we lived in Birmingham, 2017-18, I dropped my golf club membership.
About two months ago, after playing regularly out here for a year, it was time to get serious or find a pinochle game. With the gyms closed because of COVID, golf and bike riding became my only exercise. The sheer inconsistency of my golf game continued to plague and rankle me.
I approached Red Rock Director of Golf, Gerry Montiel, and offered him a challenge. I wasn’t sure how long it would take, maybe five lessons, maybe ten, fifteen or twenty but teach me how to play this damn game. He accepted. We now rendezvous every Thursday morning at eleven.
Over the years my mustache has turned gray and thin. Like a Trump presidency, my Gabe ‘Mr. Kotter’ Kaplan/Gene Shalit look parched over time. But we had been an item for so long, it didn’t matter. We were a duo. Part of each other. In good times like Sonny & Cher, Ike & Tina, George & Susan, Joe D & Marilyn and Donald & Marla. Me & Stache, not doomed to a separation like all the rest of those great combos. Instead, we were Ozzie & Harriet and Archie & Edith; in it until the finish line.
In only a couple of weeks the lessons with the pro have made a difference in my game. Please don’t tell Montiel I said that. My low 90’s have come down to the mid-80’s and I’m only a couple of silly mistakes away from really being formidable. Gerry has slowed me down, aligned me in addressing the ball (Hello ball!) and makes me use my hips more than Elvis.
When the Titleist Pro-V1 golf ball left my club, it felt good. I knew it would land safely on the green. It’s a green that rolls from left to right; the pin on this day was placed right-center. The ball hit about fifteen feet to the left of the cup, right on cue.
“That is a really good shot,” Rick Schnider said, and then his voice kept rising to a Barney Fife octave. “I think it has a chance!”
I stood and watched. Wide-eyed. It’s now my moment frozen in time. Like taking direction from Scorsese, the ball hit about pin high and then started tracking to the right. Tracking, tracking, tracking…plunk!
A hole-in-one smile. A mustache soon to be history.
I raised my arms over my head like Ed Hochuli signaling a touchdown. I didn’t believe what just happened. I’ve hit thousands upon thousands of golf balls and never have gotten a hole-in-one. Came close a few times but never closed the deal.
I turned around and was embraced by Rick, Gary and Herbie. For a minute we were celebrating like it was 2019 again. We quickly regained our 2020 composure and distanced. I got emotional. It was a moment every golfer strives for, but few ever join the club. The odds are 12,500-1 against an average golfer getting a hole-in-one. For a hack like me even greater. I called Andi. For some reason when she answered the phone, she knew. It’s one of those wife-sensory things. She was screaming.
Hole-in-one tradition mandates you buy drinks in the clubhouse bar after the round. I never thought it would be me hosting. It was three o’clock on a Friday afternoon; the crowd was modest under COVID protocols. One of the guys in our group, whom I won’t mention by name but it wasn’t Schnider or Goldberg, asked, “As long as you have to buy cocktails and I don’t drink, would a shrimp cocktail be okay?” Though he will remain nameless, Herbie Shainker’s request made our entire religious tribe proud. The bill was $280, not including Herbie’s shrimp cocktail. Tack it on and it was the most enjoyable three bills I’ve ever spent.
As I left to go home two of our teaching pros were still in the golf shop. Kyle Dawson and Kevin Lim congratulated me and admitted neither of them had ever gotten a hole-in-one. I offered to take them out to the range and give them some pointers, but first I had to run home and take care of something long overdue.
When I bounced into the house Andi was waiting for me with a smile and a kiss. She then went into her command mode, pointed to the bathroom, and barked, “Get busy!”
Waiting for me on the vanity was a shaver, razor and a can of Edge.
In a matter of just a minute, almost fifty years of history and companionship were shaved away and floated down the drain.
Neil Sedaka was wrong. Considering the unlikely circumstance, breaking up really wasn’t that hard to do.
I’m proud that Medjet is sponsoring Sunday Morning Coffee. I spent 20 wonderful years with Medjet in Birmingham, Alabama, and can tell you unequivocally they are the standard-bearer for medical assistance membership programs. A talented staff, who cares about its members, is at the forefront of the company’s success. Whether you are traveling for business or pleasure, domestic or international, a Medjet membership should be an important part of your travel portfolio before you leave home. Check out the Medjet website at medjet.com or just tap on the Medjet logo and you’ll be able to get a look at Medjet’s services, rules and regulations, pricing, and an overview of the organization. And remember, any opinions expressed in Sunday Morning Coffee content or comments belong to the author and not the sponsor. Safe travels with your Medjet membership! — Roy Berger