Years ago, when I was a States Attorney, I played golf with 7 other guys. Every Saturday morning for several years. From April to October – we played at Cog Hill. Number 4. Dubsdread. Reserved tee times. 6:30 a.m. or so depending on sunrise. Second and third foursomes off the tee — often after Larry Lujack and a group from his radio staff.
Since I lived in Wilmette, this meant traversing 45 miles to Lemont. Every Saturday morn. To arrive by 5:45 a.m. Thus, each Saturday, I was up at 4:00. Showered, dressed and on the road by 4:30.
When I left my house, I would not waste time. If you get my drift. I gunned the car when I left the driveway and by the time I hit Lake Street, I was doing maybe 50. In a 30 zone. Never a soul on the highway. Except one morning when in the black of night, way back, I saw the flicker of Mars lights moving swiftly in my direction. #%&X!. I slowed. Stopped. Got out of the car and stood there. Holding up my license. A police squadrol ground to a stop and an officer got out. I was wearing shorts and a golf shirt so I didn’t look like much of a threat. “Do you know how fast you were going?” he asked as he approached. I handed him my license. “Yes sir – I do. I was going too fast.” And then I offered “Are you a golfer?” He looked at me. “Yeah. Why?” I responded “I live back there.” I turned and pointed. “Every Saturday morning, I play golf at Cog Hill in Lemont. We tee off in about an hour. And I confess that I sometimes go faster than I should when I leave the house.”
The officer looked at me. Chewing on my comment. “Well most Saturdays, I’m sitting right back [he turned and pointed] there. Keeping an eye on things. Do me a favor. Go the speed limit from now on.” And he handed me back my license. “Hit ’em straight” he said. And walked back to his cruiser.