I’ve never really been a sentimental or overly romantic kind of guy and when I would hear people talk about love at first sight and other such foolishness, I always scoffed at the notion.

However, even I, the kind of guy who once took a girl to the K-Mart eatery for a first date, followed by a blue-lit stroll through the automotive section, am not immune to falling in love.

The first time I saw her, well, I just knew.

She was long and lean, held her head high and was simply breathtaking. Everybody who passed her couldn’t help but stop and stare. Her charms were such that being with her actually made me feel better about myself.

Almost instantly, we were inseparable. We’d take long drives together, go out three or four times a week to various places, and money was no object.

In the morning, the first thing I wanted to do was grab her, and at night, the last thing I wanted to do before I went to bed was look at her. Anybody who has ever been in love knows what I mean.

And I took great care of her, always making sure she was comfortable and protected. In fact, after a day out, I would take her home and gently wipe off her face with a soft, lightly damp spit-soaked cloth so that she wouldn’t lose her shine.

The days Bertha and I spent together were priceless.

But nothing lasts forever, and one day, on a tight par five with water looming on the right and an unforgiving woodline on the left, it all changed. The smart play would have been to hit a two-iron off the tee as this daunting hole put a premium on accuracy. But I was young and arrogant, refusing to listen to the advice of others.

I confidently pulled Bertha – Callaway’s Big Bertha – out of my golf bag like a knight unsheathing his sword. Little did I know that it would be for the final time.

My plan was to keep the ball down, out of the wind, and drill a low screamer, with a little draw, around the break in the fairway, as I had hoped to get home in two.

However, midway through my swing, something went terribly wrong. We were out of sync as my hips cleared way too quickly while the club head was struggling to keep up. The result was a hard power-fade, starting right and then leaking badly.

What happened next is still kind of foggy. I saw the ball hit the water and skip a couple of times before submerging into the murky hazard.

I heard the faint, stifled chuckle of somebody in my playing group. Suddenly, I snapped.

In a fit of rage, I wheeled around, letting loose with a backhanded swing in frustration and the back of Bertha’s head struck the marble tee box marker.

What had I done?

In a moment of weakness, I lost my cool and, as I gazed upon her, clinging to life, I think I knew deep down that our relationship could never be the same again.

Bertha was dented badly, changing the entire shape of her head, rendering her useless. I refused to give up on her and took her to every golf medicine man I could find, determined to find somebody who could help her.

But alas, the damage was beyond repair as her disfigurement was just too severe.

I never could bear to part with her as she now resides in an old barrel in my basement, with other relics of the game that have long outlived their usefulness.

She deserved better.

It took some time but I finally found somebody else. A proficient little driver with nice lines and a good sweet spot. Yes, I’ve moved on, but you never forget your first love.