spatula. For further humiliation, he calls Al Simmens on a cell phone and describes the big Ping in detail.
Big Al asks: “Does it scale fish, too?”
Despite the insults, I’m sticking with the beast for now.
Day 371
The Medicus swing-training driver, the Mind Drive capsules and my USGA membership card all arrive today, which is either High-Octane Golf Mojo or a meaningless coincidence.
Day 372
Before surrendering my meditative wavelengths to Mind Drive, I scan the ingredients listed on the box: Vitamins B1, B6, B12, folic acid mixed with “decaffeinated green tea extract” and a list of substances that I don’t recognize. My wife urges me to Google the one called L-phenylalanine, but there’s no time. I gulp two capsules and head for the golf course.
Playing the back nine first, I open with an encouraging par-5 on No. 10, a hole that usually is bedeviling. Before long, though, I lurch into an awful string of triples and doubles. I recall Mind Drive’s claim to “enhance muscle memory” so that you can repeat the same golf swing, and it occurs to me that this might not be the ideal prescription for someone with a flawed swing.
On the second nine I start out par-birdie-par. After five holes I’m even, and beginning to believe that the Mind Drive potion might indeed be magical. Then play stacks up, and a congenial older gentleman asks to join me. I’m stunned to hear myself say yes, because I know damn well what’s about to happen.
And it does: I three-putt the next two holes, dump two balls in the water on No. 8, and finish off the round with a spectacular, out-of-bounds 5-iron that lands no fewer than 80 degrees left of my intended target.
Even herbal medicine is no match for the Big Choke.
Day 373
After gulping down two more Mind Drive capsules, I go online to research L-phenylalanine. Medical Web sites say it’s a protein amino acid that is widely believed to be a natural antidepressant.
Perfect for golf!
But there’s lightning and thunder outside, so I stay home to watch the third round of the PGA Championship. At one point, ten players, including Tiger Woods, are tied for the lead.
The phone rings—my mother calling to make sure I’ve got the television on. “I’ve never seen such great golf!” she exclaims.
Mom is seventy-nine, and she hasn’t swung a club since PE in college. However, she has become a major Tiger fan, and keeps up with the big tournaments. She’s especially excited that the PGA is being played at the Medinah Country Club, in her hometown of Chicago.
It’s pretty adorable, and also ironic. If anybody has a reason not to be enamored of golfers, it’s my mother.
Blue Sundays
D ad was a workaholic and our family seldom went on trips, even for weekends. Although we lived in a suburb of Fort Lauderdale, I can’t remember my father ever joining us at the beach. He loved offshore fishing but the rest of us got seasick in rough weather, which is of course the best time to troll for marlin and sailfish.
Consequently, we usually opted for terrestrial activities. In those days, rural Broward County had no malls or video arcades, so my friends and I spent most of our free hours exploring the Everglades, fishing for bass or catching snakes.
On Saturdays, Dad either headed downtown to his law office, or worked on legal briefs at home. Sundays were for golf, period. My father would disappear early, leaving Mom alone with the kids all day. Over time she developed an understandable resentment toward Dad’s golf, believing (not unreasonably) that he ought to hang out with his family at least one day of the week.
Like many boys, my main motivation for taking up golf was to have more time with my father. A second and less noble reason was to weasel out of going to church.
Dad was a laconic agnostic while my mother was, and still is, a devout Roman Catholic. Early in their marriage he’d agreed to let her raise us in the faith, which meant we had to attend catechism classes on
Big Al asks: “Does it scale fish, too?”
Despite the insults, I’m sticking with the beast for now.
Day 371
The Medicus swing-training driver, the Mind Drive capsules and my USGA membership card all arrive today, which is either High-Octane Golf Mojo or a meaningless coincidence.
Day 372
Before surrendering my meditative wavelengths to Mind Drive, I scan the ingredients listed on the box: Vitamins B1, B6, B12, folic acid mixed with “decaffeinated green tea extract” and a list of substances that I don’t recognize. My wife urges me to Google the one called L-phenylalanine, but there’s no time. I gulp two capsules and head for the golf course.
Playing the back nine first, I open with an encouraging par-5 on No. 10, a hole that usually is bedeviling. Before long, though, I lurch into an awful string of triples and doubles. I recall Mind Drive’s claim to “enhance muscle memory” so that you can repeat the same golf swing, and it occurs to me that this might not be the ideal prescription for someone with a flawed swing.
On the second nine I start out par-birdie-par. After five holes I’m even, and beginning to believe that the Mind Drive potion might indeed be magical. Then play stacks up, and a congenial older gentleman asks to join me. I’m stunned to hear myself say yes, because I know damn well what’s about to happen.
And it does: I three-putt the next two holes, dump two balls in the water on No. 8, and finish off the round with a spectacular, out-of-bounds 5-iron that lands no fewer than 80 degrees left of my intended target.
Even herbal medicine is no match for the Big Choke.
Day 373
After gulping down two more Mind Drive capsules, I go online to research L-phenylalanine. Medical Web sites say it’s a protein amino acid that is widely believed to be a natural antidepressant.
Perfect for golf!
But there’s lightning and thunder outside, so I stay home to watch the third round of the PGA Championship. At one point, ten players, including Tiger Woods, are tied for the lead.
The phone rings—my mother calling to make sure I’ve got the television on. “I’ve never seen such great golf!” she exclaims.
Mom is seventy-nine, and she hasn’t swung a club since PE in college. However, she has become a major Tiger fan, and keeps up with the big tournaments. She’s especially excited that the PGA is being played at the Medinah Country Club, in her hometown of Chicago.
It’s pretty adorable, and also ironic. If anybody has a reason not to be enamored of golfers, it’s my mother.
Blue Sundays
D ad was a workaholic and our family seldom went on trips, even for weekends. Although we lived in a suburb of Fort Lauderdale, I can’t remember my father ever joining us at the beach. He loved offshore fishing but the rest of us got seasick in rough weather, which is of course the best time to troll for marlin and sailfish.
Consequently, we usually opted for terrestrial activities. In those days, rural Broward County had no malls or video arcades, so my friends and I spent most of our free hours exploring the Everglades, fishing for bass or catching snakes.
On Saturdays, Dad either headed downtown to his law office, or worked on legal briefs at home. Sundays were for golf, period. My father would disappear early, leaving Mom alone with the kids all day. Over time she developed an understandable resentment toward Dad’s golf, believing (not unreasonably) that he ought to hang out with his family at least one day of the week.
Like many boys, my main motivation for taking up golf was to have more time with my father. A second and less noble reason was to weasel out of going to church.
Dad was a laconic agnostic while my mother was, and still is, a devout Roman Catholic. Early in their marriage he’d agreed to let her raise us in the faith, which meant we had to attend catechism classes on
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