Checking the forecast several times a day, hoping for the sun-dry
miracle to appear—reasonable temps and winds. Redefining “showers” against
macho and the best excuse for absence. What would Monday include if
passing were the choice?
Dick calls and, without saying it, challenges my fortitude: “Oh
yeah, I’m there, man, nooooo problem.” (Lie.)
How many times over all the golf years (which own the same length
as dog years) did I show up to prove my Driverhood (new word), only to stand
there in a pouring rain looking at the other guys, asking, “Whose brilliant
idea was this? I feel like a Sherpa in cleats!” And then there’s always that
one guy who looks up and says, “It looks like it might be clearing!” This is
the same guy who sees Mother Teresa in his toast. We all look up and take the
sky apart in pieces—we’re screwed, because as you-know-who is my witness, someone
will follow with, “Could be worse: we could be working!”
Which makes no sense when we’ve all been retired for at least 500 lost balls!
As Yoda would say, “Break me a fucking give!” (actual quote from The New Yorker)
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