Tuesday, September 4, 2012

There I stood in the tee box, early morning sun on my back, the prospect of 18 holes ahead of me, driver securely ensconced in both hands, and a sense of calm resignation blanketing my psyche. This was it. Show time. My backswing felt easy. Economical. And when I connected with the ball, I looked up to see it sail effortlessly, straight and true, right onto the fairway. Suddenly, I wished there were more witnesses, but alas, there were no other foursomes behind us.

The gravy train didn’t last. It derailed right around the back nine, and frankly I’m surprised it lasted as long as it did. When I rode the train, though, I savored competent golf. On the green in three. Sink it in two. There was minimal ball loss–and for the ones I did lose, I didn’t dwell. Somewhere on the 10th hole, rage and minor sunstroke overtook me, and I reverted to my brutish state. But I’ve got the taste now.

Traffic wasn’t bad at all today, but I’m preparing for the worst tomorrow, as the eye of the DNC storm nears. I’ve never understood what, exactly, the Occupy movement is protesting. “Gainful employment,” I’ve muttered to myself in saltier moments. Now that the Charlotte chapter has materialized, I have my answer. They’re protesting capitalism, apparently. It’s, like, fella! You may be living in the wrong country. In fact, you may have miscalculated by a continent or three.