We’ve all said it, and we keep saying it: “We need rain!” But on the first hole, when we’re burying tees for our drives, we experience that collective disease called GGA (Global Golf Amnesia).
It’s not that golf is more important than the earth (well, unless you’re putting for eagle, a birdie, or a skin—okay, even a par). Let’s face it, opioid addiction has nothing, nothing, on “The Game.”
Imagine old movies: an angel whispers into the ear of a duffer, and into the other ear murmurs an imp, that little red devil. The angel insists, “You should be thinking of melting glaciers and rising waters threatening to bury islands, the trees wanting for water!” The imp interrupts and intones into the other ear: “She doesn’t even play golf; how would she know anything about a man’s desire to achieve greatness through effort?” And the angel launches in again, “The trees …” but is cut off: “Fuck the trees, especially the one on #15—there’s proof she has no clue and, I might point out, no tail, like I have. She couldn’t even take up the game in that robe!”
The golfer’s head is spinning as he looks in the mirror and sees the angel’s head tilted, her hands clasped in prayer-like fashion. Then he views the small impish devil, who is now holding an 805. He promptly flicks off the haloed vision, who falls backwards, yelling all the way down into what we assume is oblivion. Imp, with his legs crossed and arm extended to the neck, has a tiny set of clubs over his shoulder …
A high of 70 on Monday, January 29, 2018.
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