The Hot-Pink Rubber Martini-Glass Tee

“You see, you can angle the tee toward the fairway, like this,” my grandfather bullshitted us during a round not long ago, “and there will be less friction and the ball will go farther.” My brother and I looked at each other knowingly—we’d heard all this before. Gramps pushed his hot-pink rubber martini-glass-shaped tee into the sandy Northern Michigan soil, his shaky hands finally getting the ball to rest, precariously, on the ridiculous thing. I stood above and behind my grandfather, who was framed by a view that never gets old. I was young but grateful to be playing Crystal Downs. It was hard not to be when standing in that spot, with MacKenzie’s front nine all out in front of us. The lake was choppy out past the tree line. Gramps decided against any warmup swings, the sound of his voice coinciding with the ping of his drive: “It has nothing to do with the fact that I can’t tee the ball up on a regular tee anymore.” My brother and I laughed obligingly as the ball flew, short and sure, aided by the downhill slope, hurt by the south wind, 160 yards out into the fairway. 

“The best part is, they never break!” He was already on a roll. My brother sent me another wry look, and I gave a smile back. We walked down to the dragon-backed fairway while Gramps strutted to his topless, governor-less gas cart. 

After our approaches to the green, Gramps’ ball rested just short of the surface. He gave it a rap with his gray spaceship of a putter. The ball rolled up the slope, bending to the left toward the cup and stopping a few inches away.

“Have I told you about this putter?” He had. “My friend who lives behind the 18th green made it for me. It has these weights on each side so you can’t hit it offline.” Farce or not, it worked well for a guy with the shakes. 

My brother and I insisted on riding in the cart down the hill on the eighth hole, and we finished after nine. My grandfather didn’t play 18 much anymore.

Fast-forward a bit, and I was sitting in a tiny apartment in the 12th arrondissement of Paris when my father called to tell me that my grandfather was dying. He had fallen in his house the night before. He was in hospice. I wouldn’t get there in time to say goodbye. I went into the courtyard, and eventually out on the street, to cry.

*** 

I am going to play golf in Normandy. I want to leave the city to gain some sort of solace while remembering Gramps. I had discovered a course designed by Harry Colt in the seaside town of Granville. It looks wonderful and underrated. I call the pro shop and ask if they have clubs to rent. The man understands what I mean only when I ask, “Clubs for hire?” He says yes. 

I get on the train at Gare St. Lazare and arrive in Granville via Caen. I am nearly late but meet my playing partners, three provincial French men, on the first tee. They have already hit their tee shots, and they ask my handicap. I add a couple strokes as a shield from embarrassment. I haven’t played in months. I slice a drive into the wispy April fescue, and we are off.

I am without a hat and golf shoes, the paint on the rental clubs is peeling, and a few clubs are missing. The driver is a Big Bertha Diablo with a regular shaft. But I am not concerned about my score. I hit a 7-iron short of the green on the par-3 second. I make bogey; my playing partners make par. I struggle through speaking French to them but eventually learn their names and their stories. Jean-Pierre and Auguste are about 60 years old, and Michel is 80. All three men live in town and are members of the semi-private club.

The trio must be wondering what my deal is—way out here, not able to speak much French, on a cold spring day, all alone. I would be more self-conscious of my tongue, my solitude, my game, all of it, if the circumstances were different. Then again, if the circumstances were different, I wouldn’t be here. 

The third hole turns into the wind, toward the English Channel. Auguste takes the honor, pushing a hot-pink rubber martini-glass-shaped golf tee into the sandy French soil. I barely conceal my tears as his driver connects, the tee floating end over end while his ball pierces the wind.

Teddy Keller has been a Broken Tee Society member since 2022.