“You can meet me at my club,” the email said. “Just go to the bar and give them my name.”
My buddy and I were making plans to link up while I was in town.
“I’m kind of a big deal there,” he continued. “Especially if Nikki’s behind the bar.”
It was one of the swankier country clubs in Houston.
Everyone’s a big deal there.
In their own minds, at least.
My buddy, of course, was being facetious.
He’s one of the hardest working, least pretentious guys I know.
It wasn’t uncommon for me to wake up in our room at the Naval Academy and find him still at his desk, working through mechanical engineering problems, having stayed up all night doing so.
There was a picture of him pinned to the corkboard on our wall standing over a wild boar he’d just shot.
“Sonofabitch charged me,” he’d said. “I thought it was going to kill me!”
No, he wasn’t exactly Bushwood material, as Judge Smails would have said.
But that’s not to say he didn’t rightfully deserve a place at that club or any other.
Since the Academy, he’d gone on to executive leadership roles at a couple of the most prestigious firms in the country.
He’s a sophisticated, highly polished professional whose resume outshines mine like a supernova.
But, to me, he’s the same guy he’s always been.
And I don’t mean to suggest there aren’t other humble, genuine, smart, successful people like my buddy who inhabit country clubs.
But there are also plenty of half-drunk, golf-bro douche bags.
Which is why I’m of mixed mind on the whole club thing.
I recently canceled my membership.
They had this social membership that allowed patrons to enjoy all the club amenities, less the golf course.
It suited me fine. I’ve tried golf, but it’s never stuck.
The club offered a quasi-resort experience that, I’ll admit, was nice to have at one’s disposal on an otherwise unremarkable Sunday afternoon.
I’ve never known what to do with a Sunday afternoon.
It required zero thought or energy to simply go hang out at the club pool while summer-breaking college kids brought you margaritas in foam cups.
Not bad.
Plus, it wasn’t uncommon at our club to see members of the Kansas City Royals pitching staff lounging in cabanas on their off days.
How cool is that?
Then Covid hit, and the whole experience went to shit, and the costs began to outweigh the benefits.
And then there was the incident in the dining room.
I was having a casual dinner with my then-fifteen-year-old daughter, when, from the table directly behind us, this dude unleashed a torrent of f-bombs.
Even for me, no stranger to foul language, his behavior seemed inappropriate and out of place.
And it was causing my daughter to cringe.
Is that making you uncomfortable? I asked her.
“I’m fine,” she said, unconvincingly.
So, I got up and walked over to the table, despite my daughter’s protests.
I’ll be nice, I told her.
There were two guys, about ten years older than I.
The f-bomb-dropper appeared to be on his fifth scotch and soda.
I’m here with my daughter, I told them. Could I trouble you to ease up on the f-bombs?
The non-scotch-drinking guy immediately apologized.
The f-bomb-dropper, however, got defensive.
“This is a bar,” he said. “What the f—k do you expect?”
What do I expect?
Perhaps I should tell you what to expect.
You should expect that I’m going to kick your drunk ass into a sand trap and bury your face in it.
Seriously.
It was the closest I’d ever come to asking a guy to step outside – and meaning it.
His friend, sensing this, apologized again, and said he’d pick up the tab for my daughter’s and my dinner.
I stood there a moment longer, glaring at the drunk dude, before I said thanks and returned to my table.
A minute later, the sober guy was hauling his drunk, asshole friend outside while the dining room manager made a beeline for my table.
He, too, apologized and said dinner was on the house.
The matter was resolved satisfactorily.
But the damage had been done.
Thenceforth: To hell with country clubs.
None of this is to say, however, that I don’t like the idea of a club.
Growing up a non-club person, I looked with envy upon people who were.
One day, I told myself, I would ascend the socio-economic ladder to claim my place at the nineteenth hole.
I was certain of it.
I mean, what’s not to like about a place that openly espouses exclusivity and elitism?
That describes nearly every institution of which I’ve ever aspired to be a part.
And the day I finally arrived was thrilling.
Early in my first year of business school I was invited to lunch at the Harvard Club of Boston by a no-shit, card-carrying member of the original Boston Brahmins, the great Louis W. Cabot.
The Cabot family had generously provided me with grant money to fund a portion of my MBA.
He was a fixture at the Harvard Club, where one could enjoy fresh lobster rolls after a game of squash, seated in the same dining room where various Kennedys and Roosevelts had been regulars through the years.
Mr. Cabot was delightful.
At one point during lunch, the people a few tables over became a bit boisterous. But not obnoxiously so.
Nonetheless, Mr. Cabot shot a disapproving glance in their direction and quipped, “Never mind them. We have reciprocity with the Yale Club.”
Crazy Yalies.
Near the end of lunch, Mr. Cabot pitched me on Club membership.
“The bean soup here is fantastic,” he said. “I hope you’ll consider joining.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him I had no intention of remaining in Boston.
But still.
Are you kidding me?
The Harvard Club of Boston?
I never thought I’d be qualified to scrub urinals there, let alone be a member.
Until I was.
The trouble, of course, is that all this can go to your head. Quickly.
So, yes, my feelings remain mixed.
The small-town kid in me wants to be in a club.
And the enlightened, couldn’t-care-less-about-your-amazing-short-game, grown-up in me totally eschews them.
Back in Houston, it was obvious my buddy wasn’t so conflicted.
He happily knocked back vodka tonics while enjoying playful banter with Nikki behind the bar.
To him, the club is just a place. Not the source of his identity.
I’m not so sure that’s true of others.
Still, it was great to catch up.
And the setting, I’ll admit, was quite comfortable.
Perhaps I’m overthinking this.
What does it mean to be a club person these days?
I don’t know.
But I’m pretty sure I’m not one of them.
Unless I lived in Boston.
Then the lob-stah rolls
At the Club
Would be on me.