Game Time
Pro Chip
April is National Poetry Month. This does not mean the membership has to talk to, wave at, or interact in any way with any of these poorly dressed, odd smelling beret wearers. It does, however, help you understand this month's column. Enjoy the musings.
I have bought the magazines and read the books,
where is the tour swing they promised and the second looks?
I have asked my waiter, bartender and pro,
surely, one of them must be in the know.
On the range, I have captured Tiger's magic,
come the first tee and I become Phil U.S. Open tragic.
I have studied Sergio and his claw putt,
ogled and considered Michelle's style, butt.
On paper, my game is a two hand slam dunk,
in reality, it's three off the tee and one in the junk.
What happened and where's the fix,
until I find "IT" my game's not in the mix.
My goal is to compete and be a weekly contender,
prove the pundits wrong, I am no pretender.
In my mind, I have beaten Rory, Ricky and Luke,
mainly with my cool and a driver I can nuke.
A short game better than any mother's son,
the outcome inevitable, the deal done.
With a game like this, it is important to give back,
I routinely thank those who shaped it, Arnie, Bobby and Jack.
Wake up man, you were in some sort of fog,
we are at the halfway house and you ordered a dog.
What were you doing out there, that front nine was a mess,
get yourself together son, we just laid down another press.