Golf is a psychologically wretched game that can in a moment turn from cruel to inspiring. A feel-good shot or a hole with a bogey fuels renewed dedication among hackers like me.
My golf game is so bad I’ve probably gone 100 miles per hour in a car more times than I have shot a round with a score less than one, zero, zero. I find comfort in making even the luckiest of shots—something that also happened to me on the beautiful but challenging Ruttger’s course last weekend.
My tee shot from No. 15 bounced on the cart path and landed within a few feet of the hole. Two putts and another par three!
So last weekend I left the course with a couple of pars, one bogey and a lot fewer golf balls than when I arrived. But at least I could walk. Several years ago I stepped in a hole in the rough on The Lakes and sprained my ankle. A few days later I was the slowest moving dude at a convention in Las Vegas.
With my recent fatalism for injury or illness I am grateful to have escaped the course with only a bruised ego. Within recent weeks I have cut a finger trying to open a covered container in a buffet line, stepped on the sharp end of an earring at rest on the bottom of a swimming pool and caught a nasty cold.
The cold was wicked enough to infect my wife who hardly ever catches a cold virus. Her weekend vacation and mine were compromised by illness, but a few adult refreshments did make us feel better.
I take responsibility for giving her the cold. If there is a virus within our zip code I am at risk. Not always, but maybe with the same frequency that Shaquille O’Neal converts free throws.