Confession(al)

After a week of wayward wedges, three-putts (is there anything more traumatic in all of sport?), and having to hit six-iron off the tee in order to stay off other people's fairways (I wish I could say this strategy worked), I've been thinking it's probably time to re-tool my whole golf game (does this mean getting a lobotomy?), or give up the game altogether. (One is reminded of the recent divorcee's exclamation: "Can I have the last twenty-two years of my life back?") Did I mention I was in a car accident last night and got tattooed by a ringlet of glass shards around my eye? Bad luck? Maybe, but what is an honest person to expect of South Florida?

At least I don't have dioxin poisoning, or have to run against (debate?) a guy who does...