I can't...

As I drove in with Wade, he was already in full complaint about his hands. (We all know the items that plague him and their discouraging effects.)


I suggested that he was going to have a really good game today, after his last duel with Eagle and his 91.

"Oh no, I don't have back-to-back good games."

"You were on that last game, Fireman!"

"I know!"


Mr. "I can't chip, putt, get the ball in the air, drive, make bacon the way I want, leap buildings in a single bound, climb Everest, hit a baseball 500 feet …" and the list goes on, is a man who takes full advantage of opportunity when it's offered. Many of his reactive reactions to failure that saw angry responses have ebbed and turned more philosophical, and there is even some understandable resignation. He battles with more maladies than most, so when he is on and all the parts are agreeing, it is nothing less than a pleasure to witness. He gets anxious and excited, forgets to take that practice swing because he feels he is righting a ship that doesn't often sail in his direction; he needs that pre-swing to rein in the enthusiasm and encourage what isn't always rote. He's a mathematician about his handicap and his score. He senses when potential is upon him, and frankly, when he's on offense, as he was the other day, he's Zorro, only taller.



I love watching this self-proclaimed underdog achieve and surpass—win, lose, or draw as a team—and when one of us is "killin’ it" it's better than anything on TV. It's live, it's real and it's one of ours. We all have our "Fairway Demons"—it’s the nature of the game—but every now and again when the golf gods are at intermission, we sneak in a good round. And we live for that day, that experience. The "music" follows us around until we're on the tee again, praying, hoping, and ready to swear.




Mr. 91 strikes again! You can!