Remember golf

Feels like I haven’t played in months.

I was nearly asleep, but something was begging for examination.

Eagle Springs: first hole. (It made more sense than counting sheep.) Tee’d, and never ready; the first few practice swings feel like wielding an angry cat. There is nothing I trust in these wasted movements. It’s all hope, and I’m disguising my fear with it.

Going left: well, left is jail, pure and simple. If your ball isn’t in the water, it’s plugged so deep it’s speaking Chinese.

The middle: prayer answered, and an undisguised exhale of relief.

Going right: negotiation, maybe some strategy, and always a stoic oak whispering, “Go ahead, I dare you—no, I double dare you.” I examine the color of the flag as if from here it will, could possibly, affect my choice of clubs. Arguably the toughest initial hole I’ve played, this first hole.

Dogleg/uphill/wet (always wet): elevated camelback green.

Red flag: impossible if you’re past it.

White flag: inevitably placed on a sloping angle. Short, and the putt runs back at you like a kid on the first day of preschool.

Blue flag: the black sheep of flags. Unless your damp divot gives your wedge permission, you’re over into more crap; awkward chips are abundant and rarely garner satisfaction.

Leaving the first hole with a bogey is like putting a dollar in a change machine and getting only 75 cents back—and being just fine with that!

I remember golf—the abuse … and I miss it, so go figure!