I haven’t figured out over all these years which
one is the ham and which one is the egg. I only know playing with them makes me
feel like the yolk!
Example: Today
I’m having one of those rounds
on the front nine. “Team Meal” (ham and egg) are avoiding eye contact,
lest they have to acknowledge how poorly the effort is being put forward, or
they’ve already used all the adjectives, long faces, and compassionate
utterances they can think of—and it’s only the 5th hole!
Speaking of which, my second shot goes so far
left I tense up and await the accident my Titleist is about to threaten on the
highway.
Meanwhile, back on course, of course golf is
being played, discussed, measured, and nodded to by my playing partners, Mr.
Hammer and Mr. Egg-straordinary. I concede to defeat on hole 5. I want to
confess to a golf priest, all … well, a lot of my sins, to be
extracted from this pain. The contrast (over there) by those people
is painful.
Suddenly I’m Orpheus! If I don’t look
back, maybe I can find my game; if I don’t peek, I’ll hit one straight; if I
don’t look, I’ll gain some self-respect. I looked, damned to golf
hell. If there be a melody and harmony of golf, it’s those two. God
they’re fun to watch, fun to hate! They do encourage one to dig a bit
deeper, even if the soul is lost.
So. So I know what to expect and assume; they
rarely let me down. I do feel like the bastard child, or Linda Blair bouncing
on the bed, or that thing that explodes from the guy’s chest in Alien, from to
time—but I’m forgiven by better play, and they don’t hold that last sentence
against me. ;-)
Christ, even their names rhyme!
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