Last Monday I took a knife to a gun fight.
And that isn’t quite accurate. It was more like a butter knife to a nuclear war. I played in the United States Amateur Public Links qualifier.
The good news is that I didn’t finish last and I was not injured during the round. Well, not seriously injured.
My caddie (he stayed for both rounds, mostly because I drove and he didn’t have another way home) is a good friend and we had a good time talking about old times (back when I could hit a green with a 9-iron) after it became unrealistic that I could qualify while I still had holes to play.
This was for about thirty of the thirty-six holes. The end of the day (I had to walk all 36-holes) saw me with a blister on my foot and an unbelievable burning sensation in another area.
Today’s Real Country Music Lyric of the Day: There’s no place I’d rather be than with my redneck, white socks and blue ribbon beer.
Back to the story of Custer and the Indians…
I could say I didn’t have time to practice or play in the days prior, and that would be correct. But to be closer to the truth, I wasn’t good enough to qualify for this. My chances (realistically) were just as good my chance to qualify for the 200 meter butterfly in the Bejing Olympics. And I don’t swim.
I could insult myself more, but I have to go get my tennis racket re-strung.
