My brother, Peter, lives in New York. When he visits us, I’d love to take him to a popular local golf range in Fishers, where I know he’d have fun driving golf balls onto giant dartboards. But I can’t take him there. I’ll explain why, keeping in mind this is a family newspaper.
My friends Bob and Cathy gave me a gift certificate to this place for my last birthday and I was eager to try it out. I invited my son to join me there on Tuesday evening for dinner and a chance to practice our hooks and slices.
The hostess guided us to an enclosed area with a café table next to a golf tee looking out on the range. Here, you can dine and whine about your golf shots. We registered as new members at a computer kiosk. Brett and I both signed in, then we took a couple of iron shots. Soon, it was time to order our dinner. But as soon as we opened our menus, the server approached us.
“Mr. Wolfsie,” she said, “the manager would like to talk to you.”
The manager approached and quietly asked if I was Mr. Wolfsie. I said “Yes,” with a smile, assuming he recognized me from TV. Truth is, he had no clue who I was.
He said, “I am going to have to ask you to re-register using a different first name. This is a family friendly business and we like to ensure a wholesome environment. The registration form does not accept any profanity or vulgarities (author’s note: This story is 100 percent true.)
I signed in again, this time as Richard Wolfsie, although I considered trying other names, just to see how many times I could be censored by a software program. Remember, my name is printed at the top of this column every week. I hope you’re not offended. If so, thanks for not reporting me.
But back to my brother, Peter. Do you see why I can’t ever take him to this place to hit golf balls?
