Golf Shmolf.
Me? Not a golfer.
Not that I haven’t tried. Not that I don’t enjoy strolling a sun-drenched fairway while taking in the ambiance of well-manicured grounds, fresh air and dudes of all ages howling new ways to conjugate the F-bomb. That’s all fantastic. It’s just that my learning curve is currently right about where most golfers were when they were, like, six. Oh sure, as a man of modern means I’m OK at chipping and putting– it’s just that when it comes to stuff like driving and knowing the difference between a 4 (iron…wedge?) and a 9 (iron?), I look like a confused, pigeon-toed hockey player with a cyclops complex… and that just won’t do.
In an effort to give Little Dude a leg up over his Papa– you know, so he’s a golfing pro right about the time racquetball makes its comeback as the status sport of choice– Lady Friend took him out for some early training, which started off well enough.
Smashing!
But then… yeah.
And then…um, yeah.
Chip off the old block, and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Hee hee!