Scott, a 3-handicapper, hadn’t been playing much golf when he arrived, but once the bell rang he turned it on with a 75 amid high winds at Kingsbarns, while his father struggled to finish the 18 holes without hurting himself. Oh, how old and mortal I felt that day, watching my son consistently outdrive me by 50 yards. But our 41 better-ball Stableford points (roughly 40 of them from Scott) staked us to a share of third place among the 60 or so teams.

The next day the wind gusted close to 50 mph but I finally joined the squad and we ham-and-egged our way to a two-day total of 76 points, which kept us among the leaders. I also won the long-drive prize that day. Okay, it was the Dad’s Only division and most of my co-competitors were Metamucil addicts, but hey, a win’s a win. Besides, there was a big headwind, so that 157 yards was much longer than it looked.

I’d figured Team Peper would make its move on the New and Old Courses, and indeed we did—backwards—slipping to fifth place after three rounds and finally into an ignominious tie for eighth, comfortably outside the prize list.

We were dejected—for about 15 seconds. Over those five days, we’d had too much fun. In addition to the golf, there had been several lunches and dinners with the other fathers and sons, rife with intergenerational ribbing, not to mention a malt whisky tasting and a kilt-fitting demonstration during which one brave father and son volunteered as models, immediately becoming the targets of a series of ribald catcalls.

For the awards banquet, all 100-plus of us got decked out in full Scottish regalia. Scott, who had scoffed at the prospect of donning a plaid skirt, took one look at himself in the mirror,

resplendent in kilt, waistcoat, sporran and shiny black shoes with laces crisscrossing smartly up white kneesocks, and said, “Hey Mom, don’t you wanna take a picture?” She did, of Scott and me on the Swilcan Bridge, and it became an instant classic of the family album.

Scott and I haven’t played together since that father-son tournament, and it may be many months before we do, but until then I have some fond and indelible memories, one in particular. It was during the last round, on the elevated tee of the par-3 11th hole of the Old Course. As is often the case on that hole, play had backed up a bit. Scott stood on one side of the tee making mini-practice swings, taking the club back a few feet and checking his backswing plane. I stood on the other side, watching him and thinking thoughts that, for me, were uncharacteristically warm, fuzzy and fatherly. Suddenly, as if he’d heard me, Scott stopped his fiddling and looked over at me. We held each other’s gaze for a moment. Then he gave me a sheepish, knowing smile and I smiled back, neither of us saying a word.

Golf just doesn’t get any better than that.