By Carson Cockman
It happens every year about this time. Yes, the weather turns cold where I live and I have to put my 96-year-old caddie into suspended animation until spring. That is a good thing because that is the most animation I have seen out of him all year long.
I am not saying that he doesn’t move around much but last month the coroner came by the green on seventeen at the Mooresville Municipal Golf Course and Lube Change Facility and tried to attach a toe tag on him.
The only reason they didn’t haul him off in the hearse is that the rest of us were just as stiff as he was after seventeen holes and the accompanying shots…and I don’t mean with the golf balls.
I am not saying we tipple a bit but by the time we meet the Cosmic Golf Pro and go to that big tournament in the sky, we’ll be pre-pickled and the undertaker could save his juice.
See, that is what happens to me every year. No, I don’t get pickled…well yes I do but I don’t just die. I grouse myself to death because I can’t get out on the links.
My wife doesn’t understand me. This is in itself not a news flash but she could be a bit more compassionate. When she sees me polishing my Ping with a faraway look and a constant mutter issuing from my lips, she could offer support by forcing me to play the golf simulator on the computer but Nooooooo!
She simply doesn’t get it. She will grump at me and give me wintertime to do list.
I ask you. How can a male golfer repair the plumbing under the sink while his mind is on a fairway in sunny Florida? With that kind of distraction the toilet will flush every time she turns on the spigot at the kitchen sink.
I guess I have the Winter Golfing Blues.
I know some guys who never let winter faze them. They don their insulated underwear and battery operated ball warmers (golf balls, you pervert) and trek Iditerod style onward.
I am not that way. I merely sit around the house like a grumpy bear that has been awakened too early from hibernation. I growl and grumble about everything until spring arrives.
I can only dream of that far off day when I can banish the blues; thaw out Grandpa, scrape off the moss and resume play.
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