I’m not a golfer, and those who have talked me into playing with them usually regret the experience. Perhaps they gain some satisfaction from watching me crisscross a fairway leaving chunks of grass in my wake and taking at least three shots for every one of theirs. I suspect that’s not the case because I never get asked to play again, which is just as fine by me. Put me in a boat or on a tennis court and I’m better off.

That was until this summer and my son Jack asked if I wanted to join him and my 10-year-old grandson, Eddie, for nine holes.

I don’t own any clubs, but that didn’t matter. Jack would let me use his, although he’s a good five inches taller than me and his clubs looked more like a set of garden rakes and shovels than instruments to master the links. I could have used his pitch to trim the weeds around the garden.

We headed for a par-three 18-hole course – the Meadow Links – that Jack and Eddie had played last year when they spent a week in the family place not far from Cooperstown. It’s a country course of rolling hills ridged with deep green woods of oaks, maple, hemlock and pine.

Eddie was pumped up for the game and for driving the golf cart. I think the cart was as much as an attraction as the golf.

“Hardly anyone,” said Eddie gleefully when we found four cars parked on the grass in front of a barn-like building that served as the office and clubhouse. I felt an instant surge of relief. We wouldn’t be holding up anyone. More accurately, as I soon discovered, I wouldn’t be holding up anyone except Eddie and Jack.

The proprietor was delighted to have some action. He looked us over and declared the charge of $30 and “it’s good to have kids on the course…he gets to play for free.” Eddie slid a scorecard and a pencil from the counter. Jack was handed the key for the cart, although I think we all knew that as soon as we got out of sight of the office, Eddie would be behind the wheel.

I’d never played a three-par course, but from the first hole I could tell I was going to like it. On longer courses, scores of less than 10 were to be celebrated. Suddenly, it looked like I could consistently score in the single digits and maybe, if I was lucky, even get a bogey.

Eddie was up first, and after a few practice swings with a 5 iron drove the ball straight down the fairway. Jack pulled out an 8 iron and sent the ball over the green.

“Maybe you should use the 9,” he said stepping back.

If I could get the ball as far as he just did, I would be thrilled, I thought.

I pulled out the 7 and after a half dozen awkward practice swings, stepped up to address the ball standing high on a tee. I told myself to keep my eye on the ball, as Eddie advised, and let swing. A fist-sized chunk of dirt went flying. The ball didn’t as much as budge from the tee.

“That’s a practice,” said Eddie. I had already been granted a one-point reprieve…thankfully. At least on my second swing I hit the ball, although after traveling hardly 30 yards it hit a bordering pine and dropped.

“Playable,” declared Jack. It was the signal for Eddie to get the cart that he brought around with the skill of an accomplished race course driver only, thankfully, at no more than 10 miles an hour.

My performance was hardly any better on the remaining eight holes. By the time we squeezed into the cart for the ride back, I held the record for the number of lost balls, although in my search along the bordering shrubs and the cat tails of one of two water holes, I found six balls to put me ahead of the game. The scorecard was another matter.

Eddie tallied the count. Jack had us beat. Eddie wasn’t far behind.

“Peppy,” he said from the back seat as we headed home, “you did better than I did when I first played here.”

With such encouragement from a grandson, I was ready to try another round if it was to happen. The opportunity came this weekend. I was really no better than the first time out, in fact, maybe worse. And then there was the dreaded water hole with a pond barely 10 feet away from the green.

Eddie plunked one in the water and took a Mulligan that still left him on the wrong side of the pond. Jack used a 9 iron and sent the ball sailing over the water and to the edge of the green.

Then it was up to me.

I thought about taking a few practice swings and then figured it would improve anything. So, with only a glance at the pond and refusing to let it gain any psychological hold, I hit the ball. It flew upward in a graceful arc, headed for the pin. Eddie and Jack watched in admiration. I found myself wondering, how had that happened? Could I do it again? The ball dropped 10 feet from the hole. I had my first par.

Jack got a par, too, but even tossing out the Mulligan, Eddie was at six.

We sat in the cart as Jack marked the scores. I looked at Eddie.

“You pared it, Peppy,” he said with a grin.

Coming from a grandson, it was better than a hole-in-one. Or, at least, that’s what I imagine.