The 10th hole at the Metacomet Golf Club
From Robert Whitcomb’s “Digital Diary,’’ in GoLocal24.com
Nearby, in East Providence, and on higher ground, is the lovely Metacomet Golf Club, which has been in a financial crisis, and apparently is being sold to a development company called Marshall Development. That firm plans to turn the site into a mixed-use property. Might that include a gated community? How about with a nine-hole golf course? A three-hole one? A putting green?
Metacomet encompasses 105 acres – lots of open land to play with!
Fewer people seem to have the time or the inclination these days to spend the hours necessary to play 18 holes anyway. And golf is a very expensive sport.
Further, the population is aging. Even with golf carts, there are more and more people for whom even golf is physically too much.
And America has a housing shortage. A lot of that land now taken up by golf courses is enticing to build on. After all, the land is mostly open.
Other old clubs, usually originally created primarily for men, also are struggling. Fewer successful people can, or want to, take the time for a leisurely lunch, and it’s long been unfashionable to drink at lunch. That activity used to be major attraction of club lunches. But tax changes under Reagan and Bill Clinton reduced the deductibility of what used to be called “the three-martini business lunch.’’
I remember with a pang the boozy “business” lunches I had in New York and Paris; I usually drank little or nothing, but most of my table mates knocked back the stuff. One of these people offered me a job, which I took. Later on, one of my bosses in Paris insisted on my joining him for frequent vinous lunches at a restaurant near the office to “plan.’’ I’d be lucky to escape in two hours to rush back to my deadline work. Toward the end of the meal, the very patient waiter would ask my boss “Another Irish {coffee), monsieur?’’=
When back in the early ‘70s, I was briefly an intern at Business Week magazine, in New York, two editors took me to lunch several times at a famous restaurant called Sardi’s. They always ordered a bottle of wine, and one of them a cocktail. Then, after an hour-and-half lunch, we’d straggle back to the office, where one of them, the executive editor, would light his pipe and run the daily editors meeting with great skill and astonishing memory for economic data. The other went to sleep in his office.
But the most impressive three-martini lunch man I broke bread with was a college classmate and an account executive for a big ad agency who seemed to spend most of his waking hours in overpriced Manhattan restaurants. He often paid for our lunches on his expense account, although as a young newspaper editor I was in little position to help his agency. “Let’s just call it business development,’’ he told me.
It was all very unhealthy but often great fun.
