In a June 1960 episode, Fred Flintstone’s defeat of Ben Boulder in the Loyal Order of Dinosaurs Lodge golf tournament was followed by a yabba dabba dinner of brontosaurus ribs and Bedrock-candy dessert. The game of golf has evolved since the Stone Age but still includes rock-hard spheres shanked and hooked into the woods.

I wrote my Grandfather a birthday poem in 1973 that began, “For 80 full years, from buckboards to jets, you’ve seen many things, and I’ll take all bets, there’s much more you’ll do and miracles you’ll see, with someone you love, my Grandma, Bea.” Plenty of today’s golfers have spent decades hoping to see miracles to improve their score cards. As it happens, there have been a few helpful changes since Flintstone played.

After rock-on-a-stick clubs were replaced, help came when hieroglyphics (then) and numbers (more recently) were affixed to sprinkler heads to reveal how far the next shot to the green had to travel. This technique was simplified in 1998 by SkyCaddie, a product communicating with satellites overhead to measure the distance to the green. Even though they were pricey for hole-in-one seekers like me, it seemed a worthy investment toward a better score. I had to have one. In my case, however, there was a flaw with this new technology. The information seldom influenced the outcome of any subsequent swing.

Playing in a tournament in Fargo sixteen years later, my partner parked our cart alongside another used by opponents as we prepared to tee up. To select the weapon of choice, I checked the SkyCaddie hooked to my bag. It read 153 yards. There happened to be an identical SkyCaddie attached to a bag on the other cart. It displayed 161 yards. I wondered how an eight-yard discrepancy could happen and if a hole-in-one using such imprecise information was possible.

By 2015, others on the golf course were using something new, a laser device to measure the distance to the flag stick to the closest yard, not just to the center of the green as SkyCaddie did back then. With continued hope of buying a game (and an ace), I investigated the purchase of the newest laser rangefinder. It became clear that enhanced information and potential holes-in-one came with a significant price tag. It was prudent to share my thoughts about purchasing a rangefinder, as others were using, with my wife. When I brought up the subject, she said, “Don’t you have that satellite doohickey that tells you that?’

“I do,” came the reply, explaining further what was learned in Fargo about questionable side-by-side SkyCaddie readings. “They’re just not accurate,” I told Rita.

“Since when does your game have anything to do with accuracy?” she wanted to know. That stung a bit. But she did have a point. The subsequent purchase of my first laser rangefinder the size and weight of a brick also required the obligatory tit-for-tat purchase of a closet full of shoes with matching purses (not mine). The price of buying a game of golf escalated further.

As has been the case with mood rings, rotary phones and more, there have likewise been rangefinder improvements during the years since my first. Now they’re easier to aim, vibrate to confirm distance to the flag, have numerical adjustments for uphill or downhill shots with reduced size and weight, while some play your favorite tunes. They do everything but tee-up the ball and keep your beer cold. When my old device died weeks ago, so did hope for my first hole-in-one. There was no choice but to find a replacement.

Please, if you run into Rita around town now, don’t mention I have yet a new arrow in my golf quiver. If she finds out, her jewelry box may require more drawers. Whether in retirement or not, looking forward to golf’s miracle shot is expensive.