Not Going to the Masters
What did they tell me when I asked about playing in the Masters? Nope. Not this year – or any. You’re not even in the PGA. Who was I informed by? My old golfing boss who ran the golf driving range where I had worked. Twice I asked him why and the third time he told me: “Well, when you putt you are trying to putt straight, just like you are shooting arrows.” He said, “with all your practice you’d think you would be getting closer to the hole.” But I wasn’t. I still hadn’t learned to hook properly either on the greens or on the fairways. At least I don’t cry after my sixth putt to the flag.
(golf painting speed painting time lapse demo 35 seconds)
The fairway – I don’t spend much time there. I’m usually off to looking for my golf ball on either the left or right side of all that nice green grass. And I walk the course, never using a caddy. I have enough people in a foursome to laugh at my play – I don’t want to be paying for one more person to join in on the laugh track. I lug that bag myself – with two ball retrievers – just in case I break one.
I’m not saying I don’t take my game seriously. I do – I do everything possible to lower my scores. I go to the driving range almost every day to hit a bucket of balls, bouncing them off of the golf picker out around a hundred and sixty yards - which is about as far as I can drive a ball. I take lessons from a golf pro. At least I think he is a pro because he does wear Bermuda shorts. And the best thing I do to lower my score is to cheat. Yeah, cheat. Some days you’d think I was playing soccer out there, the way I can kick a ball around. And I am good with a pencil too. I certainly know how to add. But I am much, much better at subtraction.