I keep my golf clubs on the back seat of my car. That’s because my wife Nancy doesn’t like it when I stand them in their bag in the living room and it’s too much work to take them down to the storage room after every round. So they stay in my back seat. And they are lonely.
My loyal and lonely clubs have not had the opportunity to pop a drive high in the air and fall short of the ladies’ tees in three whole months. They have not left a ball in the sand trap after four mighty swings and they haven’t seen a single two-foot putt rim out.
They feel abandoned.
I had a little talk with the fellas last week while driving through the slushy aftermath of a snow and told them that it would soon be March and the days would grow longer. Then, I would free them from the confines of my Jeep and let them do what they were made for – to hit 95 godawful shots in a single round and make me feel like a moron.
And they do that very well.
