I’m sick of bad golf. I hate shanks, skulls, chili-dips, three-puts and leavies in the bunker. I hate losing brand new golf balls in water hazards and hitting banana ball slices that sail out-of-bounds into flowerbeds in other people’s yards.
Worst of all, I hear myself constantly complaining about my poor golf. Last week, one of my dear friends asked me whether I wanted “a little cheese with my whine?”
So now, by gosh and by golly, I’m doing something about it.