Bad Golfer

 Among bad-golfers, it's scripted that when you complain about how terrible, how stinking bad, how horrendous you're playing, you look at the beauty of the golf course and the pretty white clouds scudding across the lovely blue sky, and say "Well, the important thing is that it's beautiful out and we're having fun." This is bullshit.  Okay, it's a nice day. The clouds are ever so pretty, and the green of the course is indeed attractive. But who gives a flying fatootie, really? I care about playing well. I want to hit satisfying thwacks and see the ball flying in a nice straight line towards the green. I want to not 3-putt. Sure, it's a nice day, but it would be a nice day if I was mowing my lawn, too, but that doesn't make it fun to mow my lawn.  Thursday was one of those lovely days. And my bad-golfing reached new levels of stench and rottonness. I started out with two sleeves of new balls. I thought that would be enough. After completing the firs...

 I hadn't been golfing with my best buddie, Calvin, all season. He's been feeling under the weather with a sore elbow for a few weeks now and using this so-called injury as a handy excuse not to come play golf with his old roomie. Poor bubbie. Cry me a river. You and I both know he was just afraid of being humiliated on the golf course by my shining, stunning golf skills.  So I sent him an email the other day, ordering him to man up already, eat a whole bottle of ibuprofen and come play golf with me! And that's an order! To my immense surprise, he obediently wrote back, "Yes sir. Book a tee time." What he didn't say is that he was already planning to be in Brattleboro anyway. Ha ha.  So, wearing our very smart and almost-matching coral-colored golf shirts, we headed over to the Brattleboro Country Club to play nine.  It seems to me that every time I play, a brand-new weakness in my game pops up to bedevil me. Sometimes it's the putting, resulting in my pin...