An 83-year-old Snowbird/golfer missing 3 fingers is my hero?

Who says age and/or a disability should keep us down?

“I’m now 33 so why should I care? I’m not even thinking about age and/or a disability.”

Trust me. The next three or so decades will fly by faster than you think possible, so enjoy the moment. Just don’t buy a motorcycle or go to Boys Town and get in a fight with a cartel guy. Each may cut your time short.

“This is Hank from the bike shop. Why are you talking down about motorcycles? Needlessly scaring people? I make my living off of selling bikes.”

Hey, good for you, brother. In fact, I almost bought a Harley two years ago after getting hooked watching “Sons of Anarchy” on Netflix. The only bike I ever owned, back in my 20s, I crashed, so one would think I would have learned my lesson, but with age, comes wisdom but also latent stupidity. In my case, it seems to be more the latter.

Too many people believe that once you hit a certain age, you have to start feeling and acting decrepit. Not so.

As if to prove my point, I ran into a snowbird (AKA, a Winter Texan) on the golf course. His name’s John, and he still makes the annual trek back and forth to his home inWisconsin.

He will blow your mind, as he did mine.

The Missing Fingers

If you saw this guy, John, here’s what you’d see — a bentover man, maybe 140 pounds soaking wet, who looks like he’s been making his own way in life since the age of four. Grizzled, but friendly as a lot of snowbirds are apt to be. Thankfully, he wasn’t wearing a name tag.

The first hole we teed off on together was a par 3. I missed the green short on the front. The guy I was playing golf with missed it too. And now it’s John’s turn to swing. Strangest swing you ever saw. Poor little guy. He’ll be lucky if he hits the ball past the ladies’tee, I was thinking. On the backswing, his head moves in an awkward fashion along with the club, and then there goes the ball — on to the green.

Lucky shot, I tell myself. No way he’s going to beat me. We still have seven holes to play when we hook up with him.

On the green, John’s got about a 25-footer to the hole. Oh, man, even his putting stroke looks like some reject from the sports blooper show. His entire head moves back, just like when he drives the ball.

So now I watch him putt the ball to within a foot of the hole from 25 feet away. Okay, so lots of guys hit two lucky shots in a row. But let’s see how he does on the next hole, a par four, with trees along both sides of the fairway. Be lucky if he makes a double bogey on that hole, as I settle for a bogey on the par 3, right behind John’s par.

I’m already down a stroke.

While we’re walking off the par 3, though, I notice this leather glove on the ground, and it looks like there’s some metal attached it, and I notice that it looks like some sort of prosthesis, since the metal is shaped like a hand.

So, I look at John’s left paw and notice three fingers are missing.

When we get back to the golf cart, I mention it to my buddy, who’d met John during a previous round on the course.

“He lost his fingers and made himself a prosthesis. Told me it didn’t turn out the way he wanted it at first, so he went back and tweaked it until he got it like he wanted.”

“You’re telling me,” I asked, “that he welded his own hand prosthesis?”

“Yep.”

“How’d he lose his fingers, did he ever say?”

“Nope,” said my buddy.

Needless to say, John’s first two shots weren’t lucky. Because on the par 4, he drove it straight down the fairway. Not far, but close to 200 yards.

“Not bad for a guy only 75,” I told him after one shot, figuring he might tell me his age.

“That was a few years ago,” he said. “I’m 83.”

His Wife Golfs Too

I noticed there was another bag of clubs on the back of his cart, which he had obviously brought from home.

“Those clubs belongs to my wife. She plays too. But she’s 92, and she hurt her arm recently.”

Now I’m starting to feel not very old at all.

Because I’m looking at an 83-year-old guy, who’s lost three fingers on his left hand, who plays golf with a homemade prosthesis, who still plays golf with his 92-yearold wife, when she hasn’t hurt her arm. But her bag is still on the cart, so obviously John figures she’ll be back to playing soon.

We’re not even taking into consideration, yet, the effort and work it takes to make the trip down here and back from Wisconsin every year.

The next hole, my buddy’s laughing.

“Look at my ball, eh? He outdrove me. An 83-year-old guy who’s lost his fingers. And he outdrove me. And I’m 10 years younger to boot.”

“Yeah, but it’s obvious that the hand prosthesis is giving him an unfair advantage. The metal used to fashion it obviously lends weight to his swing and gives it some extra power. If this were the PGA Tour, John would be disqualified. So, just look at it that way.”

I need to find some way to justify the fact that this friendly snowbird is moving even further ahead of me as the holes pass by.

Par, bogey, par, bogey, par, water hazard.

Up on the next green, I say to John – “So what do you usually score on 18 holes,?”

“About an 82. Usually somewhere in the low 80s.”

Amazing — the guy is 83, wearing a hand prosthesis to make up for the four fingers he lost somewhere along the trail of life, with one of the weirdest golf swings you ever saw, and he’s about a 10 handicap, playing from the men’s tees.

Go, John. A walking testament to what it means to be alive. And well.

Yeah, he outscored me.