In my continuing quest to break 80 on the golf course (any golf course), I carded an 81 over the weekend at lovely Tallwood C.C. in Hebron.
I knew I was close, but at no time did I ask the keeper of the card, Tall Paul, what my score was. I also knew that my chances to record the magic number were severely diminished by a ball that mysteriously vanished into thin air after nicking a tree on the 8th hole. In a round populated by pars and bogeys, the score on the Unfortunate Eighth was a triple-bogey 7.
And so it was that I shot a 41-40-81, which is far preferable to an 80.
If I’d missed my goal by one shot, I would still be obsessing over every putt left short, every missed opportunity. Missing by two shots, not so much.
If you couldn’t possibly care less, I completely understand. There’s no reason why you should.
But as we switch from polo shirts to sweaters, from shorts to long pants, I’m coming to grips that time is running out. Another season may go by with the magic number just beyond my grasp.
On the other hand…