Independence Pass had just opened, and I had a 9-hour drive ahead of me. As I marveled at the walls of snow flanking both sides of the highway going over the pass, I couldn’t help but feel excited about heading into warmer weather. I was on my way to Central City, Nebraska, for the Annual Asher Open — a family tradition that began in 1977 as a birthday party for my Grandpa Asher. Over the years, it has evolved into a wonderfully-hilarious, two-day golf tournament that I look forward to year after year.
As soon as I cross the railroad tracks and start down the gravel road leading to our family cabin on the lake, memories and nostalgia flood my mind. Nestled amid endless cornfields, this quaint lakeside cabin has always been a happy place for me. The usual attendees are family and friends, many of whom I only see once or twice a year. While most live in the nearby small town, others travel from across the country, marking this event on their calendars months in advance.
Friday marks the “Eve of the Open,” or at least that’s what our friend Cy calls it. The energy is always high as things are just getting started and no one knows where the weekend will take us. Typically, a late-night booze cruise on the pontoon and one too many Old Milwaukee’s are involved. An intense game of horseshoes is taking place in the garage while others gather outside, huddled around listening to Uncle Mark strum the guitar.
Saturday morning brings a whimsy of excitement because everyone knows the real fun is just beginning. Serious golfers start their first round of nine holes in the morning. My team and I, however, usually start later in the day. What follows are nine holes of golf, cartwheels, and shots of Fireball every time we get a birdie. I may not be the best golfer, but it’s all about having fun and being with equally fun people.
Grandpa’s golf course is anything but typical. Built in the ’70s, it’s more like a mini-golf course with unusual obstacles: tires to shoot through, ponds with ducks and alligators, and even a man in a bathtub (don’t ask). At hole number one, there’s a hilarious description of the rules — no mulligans, no gimmies, and no raking sand off the green. The men play 18 holes on Saturday and Sunday, while the women play nine each day. After the Saturday rounds, we gather for a grand potluck with fried chicken, cheesy potatoes, salads of all kinds, and a wide array of desserts. It’s a feast that leaves us all stuffed.
Post-dinner brings the infamous Calcutta, a highlight of the weekend. For those unfamiliar, it’s an auction where you bid on the golfer you think will perform best over the weekend. This year, we had 74 golfers in total. The excitement in the air is palpable as people strategize and place their bids. Guided by my cousin Sarah — and fueled by one too many drinks — I bid way too much, but the thrill of the auction made it all worthwhile.
After the Calcutta wraps up, the real party begins. The band takes the stage, and the atmosphere shifts into high gear. Everyone starts dancing, singing, and letting loose. It’s one of those nights where the energy is infectious, and you can’t help but get swept up in the fun. The laughter, the music, and the camaraderie create an entertaining experience that words can hardly capture.
Sunday morning, I braced myself to do it all over again. After splashing some cold water on my face, chugging a Gatorade, and taking a hair of the dog, I felt ready to jump back into the action for the finale of the Asher Open. My team and I hit the course for another nine holes, and to my surprise, I played better than ever. Perhaps it was the luck of the Irish — or the Irish accent I inexplicably developed when I’ve had a few drinks.
The accent caught on with my teammates, and soon, we were all speaking with exaggerated brogues, adding an extra layer of hilarity to the day. Every shot was met with cheers, laughter, and playful banter, making the game less about competition and more about shared silliness and enjoying each other’s company.
After the Sunday rounds, we gather near the garage for the awards ceremony. It kicks off with the Bob Asher Award, honoring my grandpa on what would have been his 96th birthday. The award is a giant Kemo Sabe flask branded with “The Annual Asher Open,” passed to the person who embodies Grandpa’s spirit — fun, positive, friendly, and kind. Cy Carlson received it this year, a testament to his great attitude and friendliness.
Then, the winnings are distributed. It’s always fun to see who surprised us and took home the most money. Last year, my roommate bid $50 and walked away with $800. You truly never know how it’s going to work out.
Every year, the vibe and the people at the Asher Open are slightly different, creating a unique experience each time. We see new faces annually, and it’s exciting to watch the tradition grow. I’m still in awe that this tradition my grandpa started in 1977 is still going strong. How many families can say they have a tradition that has lasted 47 years? Traditions like this matter — they connect us to our past, bind us together in the present, and give us something to look forward to in the future.
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