It seems that my golf pace is slowing down play. We are to practice "swing ready" golf. We are not to make anyone else wait. We must keep up. We must be assimilated. Well, maybe not the Borg part, but I was told by Jimmy the Knees to put the camera away, knock off taking photos during play and KEEP UP.
Harumph. I like to mosey along the links. I stop under trees and drink some of my green tea and pomegranate juice. I like to snap pics of the deer and their fawns. I wave everyone through. I'm willing to chat with any group that looks agreeable. It seems that is not the golfy way.
I should have known that a game that talks about a club that sounds like an item on a Chinese restaurant menu (Ping chow luck) or a weapon of war (Big Bertha War Bird) would not be amenable to the garden party pace.
I was caught HOLDING UP PLAY whilst penning a short poem to my driver. I was tired, the bench was so inviting and the rhyme just popped into my head. Lectured and chastised, I put my camera, tea and note paper away and soldiered on.
But I will leave you with my little Ode to my driver.
Listen up, Driver,
Your days are numbered.
You hurt my hands
And twist my lumbar.
Your head's too big
You drive me daft
I'm close to wringing
Your long, skinny shaft.
1 comment:
Love your driving pangs of heartache (or backache as the case may be) penned while allowing others to play through. How can such generosity and wit not be appreciated. You should give anyone not grateful the shaft.
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