A tale of storerooms, golf bags and passing out

You know the definition of "basement"?

A basement is a space, often underground, where stuff you forgot you owned cohabitates with stuff you vaguely remember and produces stuff you don't recollect at all.

The last house we lived in for 18 years had a basement, so I am relying on personal experience here. I can't tell you how many times over those 18 years we called Habitat for Humanity or Teen Challenge or some other outstanding community organization that all share one thing in common: a big truck.

We would sort through our basement trove and make a pile of stuff to be hauled away. Where did it all go? I'm just guessing here, but I suspect it wound up in someone else's basement. That's the unending cycle that can only be broken by a good bonfire, and most of us are reluctant to test the bounds of today's fire codes.

Now we live in a house with no basement. When we moved, three years ago, we knew we had to do some serious downsizing, and that downsizing consisted mostly of making sure everything that was in the basement found a new home. After all, the house we're in now has lots of closets but only one "storeroom" that's about 4 by 8 feet.

Imagine putting anything and everything you think you need to hang on to in such a small space. But it can be done.

There's just one thing I've noticed: No matter what space you have, basement or storeroom, stuff will multiply and overflow, and it doesn't take long at all.

A few weeks ago I opened our storeroom door to find stuff ready to tumble into the garage. I decided to do a bit of downsizing, albeit on a smaller-than-usual scale.

This resulted in several trips to deserving agencies with the trunk of my car filled to the brim.

There were some items, of course, that caused considerable pause. For example, how many suitcases do you really need if you rarely travel overnight?

And then there was the golf bag. My golf bag. The bag filled with clubs that haven't been used since we moved. Go or stay?

I have to tell you this was a tough one. The last time I used any of the golf clubs was the last world-famous downtown golf tournament a few year ago. I used my five-iron for a ceremonial swing or two.

Why? Because I have a medical condition that has ended my golf days. It has been diagnosed by one medical expert to be POTS, or postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome. Sounds pretty fancy, right?

Basically, POTS -- if that's what it is -- affects me when I bend over and stand up straight or, sometimes, when I've been sitting for a while and stand up to do something else.

If I'm not sure that POTS is the right diagnosis, it's because not every doctor agrees. Some doctors have told me that what I have is common among men over a certain age, there is no cure and I might as well just accept it and move on.

Don't you see? If you bend over to pick up a golf ball and suddenly find yourself looking for a safe place to fall or sit down, you're game is going to be a mess.

Not that my game was ever much better. As a matter of fact, POTS was a handy excuse for the couple of years I tried to stay in the game after these symptoms developed.

So here's my conundrum: Do I keep the clubs? Give them away?

They are a few years old. They are Ping clubs. Ping clubs are supposed to be a better-than-average clubs. They cost a lot of money. I think I paid mostly for the Ping logo, but that's just me.

What I know is that they are decent clubs, but they are not magic. For example, it is still possible to hit some pretty raw shots, even if your club has "Ping" stamped on it.

What I'm saying is that if I gave you my clubs, I couldn't guarantee your game would improve one whit. Apparently, golf still requires a certain amount of skill, no matter what those TV ads during Sunday afternoon professional tournaments promise.

For now, my clubs are safe and dry in our storeroom. They don't take up a lot of space.

On the one hand, the clubs remind me of how much I enjoyed golf before ol' POTS reared its ugly head.

And on the other hand the clubs remind me I wouldn't last two holes if I found myself teeing off at a real golf course.

You want some clubs? Are you in decent health? After all, I don't want you to take my clubs and then keel over the first time you use them.

We'll see how all this plays out. If I leave the clubs in the storeroom long enough, I might one day find a newborn set stuck in a corner.

Now that would make a decent column, wouldn't it?

Joe Sullivan is the retired editor of the Southeast Missourian.