I’m driving home from yesterday’s debacle and
I’m suddenly reminded of that Mamas & Papas song, “Monday, Monday.”
Monday, Monday, can´t trust that day,
Monday, Monday, sometimes it just turns out that way,
Oh Monday mornin´ you gave me no warnin´ of what was to be …
There were exceptions during the round that almost
made the gas money worthwhile. I saw Alan hit balls that literally appeared to
disappear! And others that went so errant I imagined the Fresno Bee with
breaking news:
A utility
worker was found deceased today from unknown causes, though detectives suspect
his passing might have had something to do with a Titleist #4 embedded in his
forehead. They urge any golfer wanting to retrieve his lost ball to contact … blah
blah blah at blah blah blah.
And then there was Dick, who said he had this
great idea: He was showing pictures of fairways to his new sleeve of Callaway
balls. “Look, it makes sense! I’m sorta making ‘em, well, homing-pigeon-type
balls—they’ll know where to land!” We all squinted and leaned towards him
to see if he was serious. He was.
Alan and he are best friends, so Alan readily
agreed, turned toward us, and raised his eyebrows to his hairline. The Hat
grinned weakly and said, “Wow … how’d you think of that one?”
Having missed several fairways myself, I admit I
gave some consideration to the concept around the 13th hole.
I called “The Gal” and Lyle pointed out that no
self-respecting coyote would come within 500 yards of this foursome.
Monday golf that became Thursday’s hope—again!
