I used to be the world’s worst skier. Now I want to broaden my horizons. I want to become the world’s worst golfer.

Today, I become a man. I have purchased (well, my youngest daughter has) an entire set of golf clubs for a total of $120. It is my first set of “sticks.”

Well, not if you count the set that Portland Larry left behind when he fled the Camden scene for Texas and greater glory. I would use those short sticks for my annual or semiannual golf round. My traditional golf plan was to, somehow, get a dozen golf balls and play until they were all gone.

If memory serves, that was only three holes at the Alp-like course in Brooks during one company outing. There is something about water hazards that draws my golf balls like a magnet.

That was before the latest Florida trip, which included a dawn (honest) round at the swank Rivard Country Club in Brooksville. This time I had extended-length clubs supplied by the same Angel Jane who used to supply home fries for the canoe trip. No one knows why, but she married Warren Mark and has stayed with him for years.

My game is so bad that I never keep score. I am lucky if I keep the golf balls I came with, let alone keeping score. We set off on the “back nine” (10-18) to avoid the real golfers, and I sent my usual array of shots into the trees, brooks and sand traps, once in a while landing on the fairway.

There is nothing more boring than watching golf on television. But during those rare moments, I love to watch the graceful arcs of the long drives. I myself hit grounders. Some of them are very good grounders.

On the 15th hole, I hit three great grounders, then actually sank a putt. “You parred the hole,” said Warren Mark. Needless to say, I was not keeping score.

I parred the hole!

Mark and I laughed all the way back to the 19th hole, where the charming Marcia Faulkingham, a Bangor transplant, was pouring. Another thing about golf. If you are sitting at the neighborhood tavern drinking a beer at 10:30 a.m., you are a hopeless drunk. If you are drinking a beer at 10:30 a.m. at the country club, you are a golfer.

Poor Marcia. Every golfer who came in the door heard my story about “parring 15.” Most of them laughed. One guy thought I parred 15 different holes. I think I was getting even for all those boring golf stories I have been listening to for 50 years.

But in telling the story to just one more golfer, I realized that I had a great time on the course, even before I parred 15. It was a great morning, and we didn’t even kill any of the exotic birds loitering around the water hazards.

As we sat there, we watched the other golfers teeing off on the 10th hole. It was just like at Sugarloaf. You think you are the very worst skier in the world. Then, you look around.

We watched the duffers hit the ball in the trees, in the rough, even sideways. That was it. I was going to get my own clubs.

That will allow me to hang around courses from Maine to Florida and tell my story.

I parred 15.

Send complaints and compliments to Emmet Meara at emmetmeara@msn.com.