The Phone Man over there on the other side of the room, taking a break from bush-hogging and perusing the local news on his computer, informs me that “the Rockland Golf Club and the Goose River Golf Club are opening.”

My husband has a peculiar relationship with golf. He enjoys making light of its formality and protocol and associations with the idle rich, and he has never swung a golf club in his life to my knowledge, but he is also strangely drawn to it. You can’t really do a competent, thorough job of poo-poohing something without paying at least a modicum of attention to it. Like most people, he found entertainment in the silly get-ups some of the old-timers (and Payne Stewart) wore, the plus-fours and Argyles and such, but I think he might actually find the whole game intriguing in a sort of self-contradicting way. I have caught him watching short segments of the Masters on television, albeit with insufficient reverence (“Retief Goosen. Now there’s a name to go through school with!”) and watching the golfing tourists in Jackson, N.H., from the porch of our favorite ramshackle old hotel.

We go there every couple of years for a night or two, get some Irish Coffee and sit on the porch in rocking chairs and either watch the bear at the dumpster or watch other people play golf. This is New Hampshire golf. Last time we were there one guy was teaching a small boy to play. The small boy was wearing his Batman costume.

As you know, any big-time sporting event shown on TV these days is going to be something from last year, or the year before, or the Bronze Age, which is just fine for the kind of sports fans we are, meaning not taking this stuff seriously at all. Maybe we’ll see some golf from back when they really wore those plus-fours and Argyle socks.

Of course, I am not going to write about golf this week, or any week, being as I am profoundly unqualified for the job. I did write a column about golf once, specifically about the one-hole, par-37 Matinicus Invitational in which my two teenage kids and their friend Liam took a couple of yard sale golf clubs and machetes out to see how many strokes it would take to get a golf ball from the Steamboat Wharf up the length of the island to the one golf hole reputed to be somewhere on Henry Thompson’s lawn. The answer is 37. They couldn’t find the hole so they dug a new one.

Such is the extent of golf reportage from here.

However, in these days, in which we seek outdoorrecreation but ought to avoid any sort of crowding, as we cultivate skills like waiting our turn, and exhibit an exceptional degree of patience, perhaps golf is just the ticket. Golf, even for those of us unschooled in its finer points, could find its moment in the sun. After all, that’s the idea, right? A moment, or a couple of hours, in the sun? I am told by folks more experienced in these things that much of the appeal of amateur golf is drinks in the clubhouse afterward. That happy hour, alas, would be messed up if the bar is closed. On the other hand, isn’t there some steadfast tradition of elegant little golf-bag flasks, highbrow and sophisticated? If so, that might be a perfectly appropriate and reasonably safe way to enjoy a beverage with our buddies; we just have to be outside, spread around some adequate distance apart, and perhaps making some effort to play golf.

The big problem for me is all that decorum. We might need some sort of back-country golf. Australian rules, that sort of thing. Hockey-stick golf. Golf for Dummies. “Glof,” according to the sloppy typist. Hey — that could be the new acronym: GLOF, for “Golf-like Outdoor Fun” (no actual golf skills required). You can be untutored, you can be slovenly, you can even be good at golf. Or not. Bring a machete, dig your own hole (but no, don’t do that at the Rockland Golf Club or Goose River . . .). And all those people ready to pick fights in the streets just because they can’t get their hair done have a great excuse. Their lack of the perfect coiffure is not their fault; obviously, they’ve just been golfing. Or gloffing.

In any case, 18 holes of Golf-like Outdoor Fun could be exactly what we need to celebrate spring. We can drink with our friends at a distance, let our hair be messy while pretending to still be stylish, manage a little exercise, and be neither “locked down” nor “in public” but in some sort of mutually agreed-upon compromise. Keep your distance, BYOB, let your hair down, play GLOF.