"Golf can best be defined as an endless series of tragedies obscured by the occasional miracle." ~ Unknown
The wind was angry that day, my friends. Like Dick Cheney on any given day. We were on the eighth hole, a short par four with water just in front of the green. I had hit my tee shot down the right side of the tree-lined fairway and was lying about 120 yards from the hole.
Figuring I needed about 110 yards to safely carry the water, I chose an 8 iron for my approach shot, just wanting to make sure I got it over. I was staring directly into a blinding sunset so that after I hit it, I couldn't see the flight of the ball at all. I felt like I caught it cleanly and was fairly confident I had at least cleared the water. And then...
My ball had struck the flagstick! It was my own little occasional miracle. The rare amazing shot that keeps the avid but mediocre golfer coming back again and again and again.
I started towards the hole breaking into sort of a jubilant trot, and may or may not have pumped my fist and yelped a little. Shielding my eyes from the sun, I could see it there on the green. It had rolled about ten feet left of the hole.
Of course, I missed the birdie putt and tapped in for par. But still, it was the single greatest shot of my short golf career thusfar.
And that's exactly the story I'm going to tell my firstborn when he or she asks what happened to their college fund.
(Also, if you got the incredibly bad Clue joke in the title, well, I apologize.)
"These old dog days of summer, lord I'll be glad when they're gone. It's too hot to fish, and too hot for golf..."