Countdown to May
So...finished up the annual two-day golf event with some good friends.
I missed the event last year because of my torn "labia" as one of my good friends calls it, and I was going this year...no matter what.
I sort of figured it would be an iffy proposition at best, but I made it through okay.
Just okay.
Golf is a rough game. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. There are different shots on each hole. Different challenges mentally and physically.
I can play with the torn labia, but it makes it difficult to sit down afterwards, and of course, some of my massive power is zapped.
Yet the real difficulty in that game for me still happens around the green.
I'm often up there in two or three with an excellent chance to do well...and after performing like "a mentally ill monkey" (as another good friend once pointed out) I'm yelling out curse words.
The weather was sort of weak during this outing - 49 degrees as we started on Saturday - and that's depressing as well - because it's about over now.
We have to sit in our houses until about May.
Yet back to the problem with my putting.
I spent a couple of holes zipping back and forth past the cup. We play at nice courses and the greens were quick and I have just one speed on my putter.
(See monkey note above).
But there was a moment when I rolled one close...close...close...and it stopped just an inch from dropping.
"Story of your life...an inch short," one of my good friends said.
(I need new good friends).
"That's a damn shame," the Grape Ape who went along on the trip said.
And I smiled at that.
Because that was my brother Jeff's line.
If you came real close and didn't succeed he'd shake his head and offer his condolences in the form of deep sarcasm.
"That's a damn shame."
And in the beauty of the course, and in the happiness of being among friends, and yeah, even up on the greens, with the hip causing discomfort it was all worth it.
And you know what?
I hit a good tee shot on 18.
Straight down the middle to leave me 160 yards into the green.
I hit my 2nd shot arrow straight and it found the green about 35 feet from the cup.
I took out my damn putter.
"One time," I whispered.
I rolled it to within 6 feet.
It was a long walk to the ball.
Last shot of the year.
The group who finished ahead of us was watching.
I didn't want someone to yell, "That's a damn shame."
So I rolled it into the cup.
A par on the last hole of the year.
See you in May.
With a repaired hip!
I missed the event last year because of my torn "labia" as one of my good friends calls it, and I was going this year...no matter what.
I sort of figured it would be an iffy proposition at best, but I made it through okay.
Just okay.
Golf is a rough game. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. There are different shots on each hole. Different challenges mentally and physically.
I can play with the torn labia, but it makes it difficult to sit down afterwards, and of course, some of my massive power is zapped.
Yet the real difficulty in that game for me still happens around the green.
I'm often up there in two or three with an excellent chance to do well...and after performing like "a mentally ill monkey" (as another good friend once pointed out) I'm yelling out curse words.
The weather was sort of weak during this outing - 49 degrees as we started on Saturday - and that's depressing as well - because it's about over now.
We have to sit in our houses until about May.
Yet back to the problem with my putting.
I spent a couple of holes zipping back and forth past the cup. We play at nice courses and the greens were quick and I have just one speed on my putter.
(See monkey note above).
But there was a moment when I rolled one close...close...close...and it stopped just an inch from dropping.
"Story of your life...an inch short," one of my good friends said.
(I need new good friends).
"That's a damn shame," the Grape Ape who went along on the trip said.
And I smiled at that.
Because that was my brother Jeff's line.
If you came real close and didn't succeed he'd shake his head and offer his condolences in the form of deep sarcasm.
"That's a damn shame."
And in the beauty of the course, and in the happiness of being among friends, and yeah, even up on the greens, with the hip causing discomfort it was all worth it.
And you know what?
I hit a good tee shot on 18.
Straight down the middle to leave me 160 yards into the green.
I hit my 2nd shot arrow straight and it found the green about 35 feet from the cup.
I took out my damn putter.
"One time," I whispered.
I rolled it to within 6 feet.
It was a long walk to the ball.
Last shot of the year.
The group who finished ahead of us was watching.
I didn't want someone to yell, "That's a damn shame."
So I rolled it into the cup.
A par on the last hole of the year.
See you in May.
With a repaired hip!
Comments