A few weeks ago, The Boss came to me with an interesting proposal that (I figure) he hoped would keep me out of his hair this summer.

In its essence, here’s his plan:

Go forth. Golf. Eat all the clubhouse hot dogs you can find. Write about it once a week. OK. Maybe I added the hot dog part myself.

The reaction to this executive decree by The Boss (I want to be very clear here: I DID NOT, in any way nor fashion, pay, bribe nor otherwise entice my wise and considerate Boss into this proposal) was immediate and expected.

At least three different factions immediately checked in.

One co-worker calls my weekly business excursions … gulp … “junkets,” and can’t figure out why the company pays my green fees and why those days don’t count as days off.

(I just limp around like I finished a marathon and tell him how tuckered out I am … leaving out the part that I ride in a cart).

Golf-course owners? My phone won’t stop ringing. Let me put it to you this way: I haven’t been this popular since my prospective second-grade “girlfriend” found out that I was apparently the only boy in Mrs. Pitula’s class who (a) had two dollars and seventy-eight cents, and (b) was foolish enough to spend it all on a ring she’d found at Brewer Card & Gift.

The fact that I still remember the girl’s name and the price of the ring may say something about the fact that I’m 36 and still single. I’m not sure.

And the few real golfers I’ve told about the plan laugh. They frown. They nearly cry, after they figure out I’m serious.

Then they hit me with this: “Why you? I’ve golfed with you. You’re … umm … well … awful.”

They may be right.

But for the past 18 years – ever since my dad took me to Bucksport Golf Club and I discovered that a purely struck 5-iron is one of life’s simplest and tastiest pleasures – the game has entranced, enlightened, and infuriated me.

I may not be good (my handicap’s probably about 25). But man, I have some fun out there.

I’ve hit balls over water hazards that held grazing meese … mooses … whatever. I’ve hit balls off cliffs. Into rivers and ponds and streams.

I’ve nearly concussed myself with a very rare root-ricocheting, cranium-crushing 4-iron scorcher that I’ve yet to see duplicated (yes, I took the two-stroke penalty, and yes, if you’re very nice, I’ll show you the scar … and let you feel the dent).

And (or so I tell the low-handicappers), that means I play the kind of game that anyone can identify with. That’s why-me.

At first I felt a bit guilty. A bit. And not for long. But a bit.

Then (it might have been on that grueling work trip that took me to the 10th tee at JaTo Highlands, where I had to look … yuck … at mountains, and a pond, and woods, and a pristine green 100 feet below my feet) it dawned on me.

I’m doing this for a higher purpose. It’s for the kids.

Surprised? Amazed? Gagging in utter disbelief? Suit yourself.

But this is the way I figure it: Kids can become engineers, make big money, and design products that will change the world.

They can become doctors, save the sick, and make lots of money.

They can become lawyers, argue for a living, and make lots of money. I admit that the arguing-for-a-living thing really appeals to my ornery, combative side.

And if they choose any of those three – or plenty of other – noble, high-paying pursuits, they can pick a day off once in a while, limber up the swing, dust off the clubs, and head to the links.

Or they can do what I do. Golf on work days. And write about it.

Sound pretty good? I thought so.

Just do me a favor: Don’t tell The Boss I’m having so much fun.

Tell him I’m tuckered out. I’ve been … working … again.