OVER THE WEEKEND I played in a two-man scramble golf tournament with my old Herald-Whig boss, Don Crim. We had a lot of fun at Cedar Crest, the weather was incredible and we played with some really good guys.
I used to be good at golf. In Michigan I was hacking three or four times a week during the summer. Even my first few years in Quincy I tried to get out.
But a balky back, a new bidness and just time itself means no time for golf, and that's not a bad thing.
I can still hit that stupid little white ball. I just don't know where it's going. If you don't like the way I play golf, stay the heck out of your own fairway!
A scramble means we both hit the ball and then we take the best shot, and hit it again. So here's what happened this weekend - we both hit off the tee, we hit it again, and I flubbed the chips and putts, while Don didn't. We finished about even par in the middle of the pack, but we should have done better. Don made a couple of monster putts, and I showed the deft chipping and putting touch of a bull in a guitar store. GUH.
Anyway, it was a lot of fun. My golf season is probably over. Tramadol and Coors Light are again my best friends - I barely got out of bed this morning, I can't sit or stand for any length of time, and guitar lessons should be interesting this afternoon. "OK, this is OUCH a barre chord OUCH and let's play OUCH some easy scales OUCH."
Yes. I know I'm in the wrong fairway. Get out of the way because I am hitting again.