Train Wrecks and Tequila
Salt, Lime and Chip
For 17 holes my swing was perfected. It was graceful, strong and free. It flowed like two sweethearts on a deserted dance floor, easy and confident. Every strike was solid, every putt was pure. It was as if on each hole, the band was playing “Our Song”. Par and birdie were competing for space on my scorecard. Golf was easy. Unfortunately, I said this out loud. The golf gods hear everything, believe me.
The train wreck that followed was of biblical proportion. It was the Hindenburg, the Titanic and the Trump campaign rolled into one. Golf Apocalypse! That French guy who gave away the British Open got off easy in comparison. Jordan Speith's Masters melt down was a mere slap on the wrist. The golf gods struck with a terrible swift sword. The 18th hole looked like a battlefield by the time I was done. Scattered over those 375 yards lay a swatch of scorched earth. It was littered with clubs, man sized divots, shattered dreams and one smoldering temper.
Hours later, sitting at the nineteenth hole sipping a tequila over, I realized the foley of my ways. I popped off. I was mocking the game. Red Auerbach never lit up in the third quarter. What was I thinking? I should have known better to think I had this game figured out. The golf gods don’t cotton to smack talk and threat it severely with surprising speed.
Next week when my memory is short and I play again, I will keep my swagger in check and a flask of tequila at the ready.