Everyday, it's the same thing. I wake on the couch and try to bring myself out of my stupor. By 8:00 I’m up and look at my sorry face in the mirror. My appearance would say that I haven’t showered or shaved for a while even though I know it was just 24 hours ago. My hair smells of smoke and my eyes are dark and circled. I shower. I'm at work by 9:00. I sit in my cubicle, watching the hands on the clock tick by. I look for something to do, there is nothing. I fiddle with my pen. "clickita, clickita, clickita…". Mail comes, mail goes, nothing but junk. Finally, after twelve trips to the water fountain and three to the bathroom, it’s 5:00, time to go home.
I race home! I can hardly wait to get to my one room apartment! To my dog who pees in my shoes! To my suit! The bright blue one with a yellow tie. I put on a clean shirt and my best pocket watch. Saddle shoes, stick, and matching hat with a yellow sash finish off the suit. I stroll down the street whistling the newest Benny Goodman to myself. I reach the club and open the door for two ladies while I tip my hat and waltz right in. BAM! The noise from the club reaches my ears! The trumpets take over my arms while the trombone moves my feet. I throw my stick in the corner and grab the nearest girl—she’s been tapping her foot all evening and is ready to swing. I holder her tight around the waste and we move our feet to the music, so bold! So beautiful! There is no other place like where I am. No other place I can go to get lost in the music, to dance until my heart is ready to leap out of my chest. The music understands my need and will continue until I am sated. When my feet ache so much, I think surely I must stop, but I keep dancing. It is uncontrollable. This is all about me; my own type of music that I bring to this world. This is what I do. This is where I am happy.
But the club must close. I walk home. In the distance I hear whistled "It don’t mean a thing, if it ain’t got that swing". I can see the first light coming over the horizon when I reach my building, and the shopkeepers are coming to unlock their newsstands. But for me, I have yet to reach my bed, and I never do. I simply collapse on the couch, smiling to myself, and still feeling the rhythm of the band.

It Don't Mean a Thing (If It Ain't Got That Swing)

As anybody that’s ever played the game will tell you, this is especially true when it comes to golf. I’m an amateur hacker who started out shooting somewhere in the 120’s but over the years through practice and repetition I’ve managed to lower my score to usually end up in the mid 80’s to mid 90’s. I did this all without ever taking a golf lesson or having a coach to guide me along the way. I even hate it when members of my regular foursome decide to offer up their own unsolicited advice on what I did wrong on any given swing. “Oh man, your left elbow wasn’t aligned with the exact angle of the sun in the sky on your downswing, that’s why you ended in the opposite fairway.” Or, “Dude, your eyes blinked in the middle of your putting stroke and that’s why the ball missed the cup by a country mile.”

Yeah, thanks and I love you guys and everything but for the time being, please go fuck yourself.

If one looks through any of the myriad of golf magazines or watches the Golf Channel with any degree of regularity they’ll be sure to be bombarded with ads or commercials promoting the latest gadget to help you improve your game. Given the number of frustrated golfers across the land who are looking for the next sure fire way to break that ever elusive par I’m betting that the golf gadget industry is worth billions of dollars. Despite some mild temptation I’ve so far resisted the urge to actually go out and buy one of those things and the friends that I have that are gadget gurus don’t seem to have gotten any better. Enough said.

I’d give you a list of the craziest gadgets on the market but there’s so many to choose from it would go on forever. If you’ve ever seen the movie Tin Cup I think there’s scene in there somewhere that shows just how ridiculous you would look if you brought only a few of them to the course.

So anyway, this was the weekend to watch The Masters. For those of you who might be unfamiliar with the sport, it is probably the most prestigious title in the game. It’s the only one of the four “majors” that is played at the same course every year and if the images I see on television are to be believed it looks like a little slice (should I even use that word?) of heaven here on earth.

On a side note, I’d give serious consideration to loping off my little toe just for the opportunity to shoot a round there with some friends.

This year, The Masters was won in a sudden death playoff by a guy name Bubba. Bubba Watson to be precise. Now, in the world of professional golf that name sure stands out. Golf seems to have a country club image and guys named Bubba are more apt to be found fixing cars at the local mechanic shop or chugging beers at their local establishment. Maybe that’s one thing Bubba and I might have in common.

It seems Bubba never took a golf lesson in his life and never had a personal coach to guide him through the ups and downs that mark their professional careers. Since he turned pro he’s consistently been one of the longest guys off the tee and can crank out drives over 350 yards. I’m almost willing to bet that he’s the only one on tour who can make that claim.

To me that is a true testament to perseverance and unlike many of the other spoiled brats that litter the golfing world is pretty damn refreshing. If you search enough around the internet you can find Bubba and some his friends playing in a band on YouTube or yucking it up and hitting trick shots. That’s pretty rarified air in the normally reclusive golfing world

When he was interviewed after being awarded the Green Jacket here’s what he had to say;

I’ve never had a dream go this far, so I can’t really say it’s a dream come true,”

One last thing, Bubba and his wife were finally awarded a child after being on a waiting list for four years and being turned down twice as prospective parents. It’s a one month old boy they named Caleb.

They got that bit of news one week before the tournament started.

I think I speak for all of the muni hacks amongst us who have ever picked up a club and struggled to break 80 when I say "Give ‘em hell Bubba, give ‘em hell".

Log in or registerto write something here or to contact authors.