My brother, Peter, lives in New York City. The next time he visits us in Indianapolis, I’d love to take him to a popular local golf “club” in Fishers where I know he’d have fun driving golf balls onto giant dartboards. Players compete for points by aiming for certain sections of the target.
But I won’t take him there. I’ll try to explain why, keeping in mind this is a family newspaper.
My thoughtful friends Bob and Cathy had given me a gift certificate to this popular golfers’ hangout for my last birthday, and I was eager to see what the place was all about. I invited my son to join me there on Tuesday evening for dinner and a couple of beers. This would also give us a chance to practice our hooks and slices.
The hostess guided us to one of the many enclosed areas where you can sit at a café table and enjoy their food and beverages. Next to your table is the golf tee, looking out on the range. While there, you can dine and whine about your golf shots. There was also a nearby computer kiosk where we were asked to register as new members. Brett and I both signed in, paying a small joining fee.
We took a couple of iron shots. Then 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.”
I was a little put off. My swing was not perfect, but I didn’t think it required intervention.
The manager approached our table and quietly asked if I was Dick Wolfsie. I said “Yes,” with a smile, assuming he recognized me from TV. Truth is, he had no clue who I was.
“Mr. Wolfsie, 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 membership registration form does not accept any profanity or vulgarities. (Author note: This story is 100% true.)
I signed in again, this time as Richard Wolfsie, although I considered trying several other names, just to see how many times I could be censored by a software program. I made it from kindergarten through high school with my name regularly called out for attendance. No one ever snickered. I have completed 35 years as a reporter on WISH-TV with my name introduced before every segment on live television. Never an issue. Wait! My name is also printed at the top of this column every week. I sincerely hope you’re not offended, but if you are, thanks for not reporting me.
The only real problem I have ever had is being confused with other people with a similar name. People have asked me if I’m Dick Crum, Gerry Dick, or Dick Vitale (before my hair transplant). I was never mistaken for Dick the Bruiser.
But back to my brother, Peter. Do you see why I can’t ever take him to this place to hit golf balls?
