I play golf most Tuesday mornings in the men’s club event at one of the local golf courses. Usually, I play just 9 holes, and if the truth be told, I look forward to the cheeseburger and fries on the scenic deck of the clubhouse much more than I do the actual process of spending part of my morning swinging hopefully at that elusive yellow ball.

Each week though, I start out fresh and with very lofty goals, like I’m really going to do something special. But as the round progresses, my goals get evaluated down to basically where I am now — and I am faced with confronting the limits of my oftentimes suspect golf game.

Also, I look forward to the beautiful walk up and down the fairways of this old, tree-lined, public course. I know that with Father Time lurking around each pond and sand trap, that I will soon be relegated to riding in a cart, so I stay determined to walk from the first tee to the ninth green. On this course, that’s a feat in itself.

All of the people up at the old course are the reason I keep coming back each week, but mostly it’s the enjoyment I get from being with my regular golfing foursome.

One is my buddy since we were little kids growing up in this town and riding our bikes to the elementary school together. We played little league baseball and high school basketball on the same team and he has stuck with me even in times when I may not have always been the most reliable fellow around. He helped coach my basketball team this winter, and it’s the most time we have spent together in several years. I thoroughly enjoyed seeing him and having his help.

Playing basketball in a Sunday night league at the middle school years ago is how I first came across one of my other playing partners. Whenever I faced his team, he stuck to me like glue and ran me into the ground. He happens to be one of the nicest young men I have ever met and a pretty fair golfer to boot. His wardrobe, as well as his company, provide me with mild amusement every Tuesday. I mean, you have to like a guy who shows up in mid-April adorned in a Christmas sweater, and then when the chill of the morning warms into early afternoon, he dons a collared shirt with a gorilla driving a golf cart.

Last, but by no means least, is the gentleman who strolled up from the course parking lot to the first tee box in early summer last year. None of us knew him, but he asked if we could squeeze him in with our group. Talk about hitting the lottery for me. I not only got to hang out with one of the best golfers I have ever played with, but also a retired golf coach and English literature teacher who will talk about books and authors from Pat Conroy and Kurt Vonnegut to Richard Brautigan and Mitch Albom as we stroll toward our next shot. He has read all the classics and possesses a picturesque golf swing. Little does he know that I regard him as a classic.

I look forward to seeing my group. We’ll be missing one for a bit while he gets some medical concerns cleared up, but he will be back before you know it, standing on that first tee as confident as ever, and whooping up on me once again.

I think it was Mark Twain who once said that golf is a good walk spoiled. Not for me, Mr. Twain. Other than being with school children, I don’t know where I could find such pleasant company.

Glenwood Springs native Mike Vidakovich is a freelance sports writer, teacher and youth sports coach. His column appears monthly in the Post Independent and at PostIndependent.com.