A wet, cold, windy mid-October day in Michigan. Only golfing purists were on links of Sanctuary Lake in Troy, Michigan, a course built on a landfill, gravel pit, and lake where I hunted pheasants sixty years before. On a course featuring five par three's, number 15 was the only one on flat terrain, with a green carved from a cluster of trees that tamed the prevailing winds from the northwest.

With the tee back a few yards, and in the chilled heavy air, even the Titleist Pro-V1 I kept in a warm pocket was not carrying so I dropped down two clubs from my normal six-iron on this hole. I knew when I struck the four-iron it was going to be close. The ball hit 15 feet in front of the pin, took two bounces, disappeared and a second later we heard the muted clink, knowing the ball had hit the pin and dropped directly into the cup.

The was my first "real" ace, after a couple in practice rounds, and one on my own two-hole golf "course" at my home in Brandon Township. That shot meant I had a chance to shoot my age or better, something I had done every year but one since age 69. On number eighteen, with that same Titleist 3 I stuck a 100-yard wedge eight inches from the hole for the birdie four that gave me a 74, one number below my age. I have hit thousands of Titleists since I carved up the three my brother unwisely let me play with at age nine behind Big Beaver School. This one I retired intact.