Saturday morning from the rough(yeah old age caused me to forget to post this)

Saturday Morning From the Rough

It’s Saturday morning.

I’ve been awake for 37 minutes.

I’ve had two cups of coffee.

Taken three medications.

Made four noises getting out of a chair.

And already have absolutely no idea why I walked into the kitchen.

Twice.

At this point I’m less of a man and more of a Windows computer with 47 tabs open.

Golf season isn’t helping.

I love golf because it’s the only activity where you can spend six hours outside, drink beer, destroy your self-esteem, lose $40 worth of golf balls, and somehow call it “relaxing.”

Last weekend I hit a drive so far right it nearly qualified for a change of address.

Pretty sure that ball is paying property taxes in Massachusetts now.

The worst part isn’t the bad shots.

The worst part is the optimism.

Every single time.

I can shoot a 104 on Saturday and by Sunday morning I’m on YouTube watching videos called:

“One Simple Tip That Adds 40 Yards Instantly.”

Brother, if one tip could fix this disaster I’d be on the PGA Tour.

This isn’t a swing problem.

This is a character defect.

And don’t get me started on golf equipment.

Golf companies are the greatest con artists in human history.

Every year they release a new driver promising more distance and forgiveness.

Forgiveness?

Buddy, I need absolution.

I need a priest to follow me around in a cart.

Halfway through every round I’m confessing sins I haven’t even committed yet.

Then there are golf buddies.

No group of men lies to each other more.

You stripe one shot and suddenly:

“There he is.”

No.

There he isn’t.

He’s gone.

That guy left on hole three.

What you’re seeing now is his less talented cousin who just chunked a wedge 14 feet.

And age isn’t helping.

At 25, I’d wake up, slam a Mountain Dew, and play 36 holes.

At 54, I stretch before putting on socks.

I’ve thrown my back out sneezing.

I pulled a hamstring once stepping off a curb.

Last month I slept wrong and spent two days walking like I was hiding a raccoon in my pants.

Anyway, today I’ll probably play golf.

I’ll tell myself this is the round where everything changes.

I’ll lose three balls on one hole.

Spend twenty minutes looking for one that cost $2.37.

Find seventeen that aren’t mine.

Come home sunburned.

Complain about golf.

Watch golf.

Shop for golf clubs.

And book another tee time.

Because golf isn’t a sport.

It’s a cult with a dress code.

Happy Saturday, friends.

May your coffee be strong, your back be functional, and your golf ball avoid whatever magnetic attraction it has to water, sand, trees, geese, cart paths, parking lots, and occasionally neighboring zip codes. ⛳️☕️🤣🏌️‍♂️

P.S. If you’re looking for me, I’ll be in the woods searching for a Pro V1 like it’s a missing family member. My wife should expect me home by supper. Or deer season. Whichever comes first.