Day One

I don’t really have anything planned out to write today, not that it matters, since no one will read it, so I’m just going to start writing and hope that, by the time I’ve typed about five hundred words, I’ll have produced something with some kind of structure. See what I did there? I wrote the words “five hundred” instead of using the numerical representation of the number. I just snuck two more words into this entry and you didn’t even notice. Old hockey trick. Don’t worry, you’ll catch up. 

So I went to the driving range this morning, which was nice. It was about twenty degrees and snowing when I got there, which wasn't. In my defense though, this is New England, and my terrible short game isn't going to fix itself. For that matter, no part of my golf game is going to fix itself, and it's my responsibility to keep it from getting any worse, so twenty degree range days it is. 

The good thing about days like today is that, when I get there early, I get the range basically to myself, which gives me a solid twenty or thirty minutes before the range hardos show up. Range hardos are just the worst kind of people. Ever had someone walk up to you and tell you everything you're doing wrong in your golf swing? Range hardo. You know the guy who chews up half of the grass section because he's taking mile-long divots on every shot? Range hardo. Now, it's one thing if the guys are good golfers. I'll begrudgingly respect someone who can routinely drive a ball three hundred yards down the middle or can get up and down out of any lie, I'll admit to that. The worst of the worst are the guys who walk around like they're the cock of the walk, but can't hit the ball past the hundred yard marker because their swing looks more like a coordinated spasm than any recognizable athletic maneuver.  And you know that guy is going to spend ten minutes watching your swing from two bays over and decides he has just the drill to straighten out the slice you're struggling with. 

Anyway, that's enough rambling for today. I'm gonna go see how many three-foot putts I can sink in a row before I ultimately quit golf. Again. 

Keep your head down.