I had several choices on Saturday. Clean the garage, wash the car or go to the golf store and waste hours looking at a bunch of stuff I couldn’t afford.

It was crowded at the golf store. I like it when it’s that way. The salespeople¹ are too busy to pester² you, and you can play with the putters all day long. I have won many imaginary tournaments on that little carpeted green.

I was heading to the front of the store to forage³ in the “experienced” golf ball jar when I saw three familiar kids-mine-coming in the front door. At first I assumed my wife sent them on a search party and that I’d have to clean the garage after all. Then I saw the sign over the checkout⁴ stand, “Ask About Our Father’s Day Specials.” They were here to buy me a gift! Not another Three Stooges tie. Not another Handy Mitt⁵, the greatest car-washing aid since water, but a golf gift. Cool.

I ducked down behind the shoe mirror as they headed toward the golf ball section. Would they buy the Tour Edition Titleists? Probably not without help. I dashed down the club display aisle⁶ and slipped behind the mountain of shimmering⁷ red and gold boxes.

“What about these yellow balls?” I heard my youngest child ask.

“Or these orange ones?” my daughter added.

I poked⁸ until a box of Titleists fell on the floor a few feet from them.

“Whoa, dude. This whole thing could fall,” said my older son.

“Yeah. Let’s look somewhere else.”

Darn. I followed in a crouched⁹ position as they walked slowly by the golf bags and over to the glove display. Perfect. One of those double-thick, imported gloves with the removable ball marker. They walked right by. Okay. Maybe they’ll pick out one of those electronic distance calculators or a six-pack holder¹⁰. They ambled¹¹ on.

Finally, they entered the clothing section and headed for a rack full of Ralph Lauren Polo shirts. Yes! I could already picture myself standing¹² in the fairway, contemplating¹³ my approach shot, while the others in my group commented on my impeccable taste.

“Hey. Look over here.” The enthusiasm in my daughter’s voice meant they had found the perfect gift. I felt bad that they were going to spend all that money, but who was I to question their immeasurable affection?

“Cool. And they’re cheap, too.”

Cheap? I peeked¹⁴ through some women’s sweaters. My daughter was holding up a pair of pink polyester pants that had been on the clearance¹⁵ rack since day one.

“And we could get this to go with it.” My older son held up a lime-green mesh¹⁶ shirt.

I gasped¹⁷ audibly. They looked in my direction, so I slipped further back into women’s wear, bumping into the store manager.

“Just browsing,” I whispered.

He looked at me strangely and I realized I was holding a pair of extra large women’s shorts and an athletic¹⁸ bra. Behind me I hear, “Look. The final touch.”

I got down on all fours and struck my head out. My youngest son was holding up a hat that said “Tee-riffic Golfer” in type large enough to see four blocks away.

“But it’s red,” my younger son said. “Does that matter?”

“Naw,” said my daughter. .”Golfers always dress weird¹⁹.”

I watched them walk toward the front, then I turned and looked at the manager. “I don’t suppose…?”

“Nope. All sales final. Besides, you’d break their hearts.”

I slept in on Sunday. At about nine they marched into the room, placed a package on my chest and said, “Happy Father’s Day.”

I tore the wrapping slowly, hoping I could muster²⁰ up enough excitement when I held up that hat. But the package contained only a note.

“Look beside you,” it said.

I turned slowly and there on the pillow was one of my favorite putters from the golf store.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“Dude,” said my older son. “We, like, knew you were there. Your car was parked out front.”

“Are you disappointed?” my daughter asked.

“No! This is perfect.” I stroked my new putter lovingly. “So,” I laughed. “Guess they let you take those dreadful pink pants back, huh?”

Just then my wife entered the bedroom carrying a carefully wrapped package.

“Ahhh. Not exactly…”