Went down to the local driving range to hit a bucket of golf balls. I felt so professional while putting on that golf glove, though admittedly at first I couldn't recall which hand it went on. Been a long time.
I've decided the main joy in golf for me is a good tee shot, since when you chip you always think you could get it closer to the pin and when you putt...well I putt poorly enough that a 3-putt isn't an expletive in my world. I feel grateful for those. Giving away a shot a hole on the green is probably where my game hurts the most, so I spent most of my time hitting drives. (Kidding.) But the drives I did hit well seemed to have a little tic associated with them - I'd let my pinkie and right ring finger fly off the club at the apex of my swing. It must be the equivalent of a hitch in a batter's swing, or something, because it seemed to result in nice straight drives. But I couldn't force it. My fingers had to let off the grip at precisely the right moment or it doesn't work. I also found out which clubs were my friends and which weren't, and they alternated being my friend depending on what the most recent drive did. That 7-wood seemed the most dependable but with the sacrifice of distance.
Then it was on to the putting green where I took three balls and placed them some distance from the cup and then decided I couldn't go home till I two-putted at least two of them. Many, many putts later it was finally achieved, and I learned that none of the three putters I own are very good. (As you can see, I'm a member of the 'blame it on the club' crowd.) I got to thinking how with basketball I don't shoot air-balls but with golf there's plenty of air ball equivalents. Hitting a golf ball must be much harder than shooting a basketball. You have to have the right club, the right swing, and you have to line it up so that you hit the ball square. A lot that can go wrong.
Post-golf I hit the library and found a keeper: "Drinking with George" by George Wendt, "Norm" on Cheers show. Turns out he's followed a similar path as me in how back in the '80s if you drank an import you were considered a wuss but now he has discovered the flavorful micro-brews. He was inspired enough to write a book on the subject.
Speaking of drinking beer, from the Dispatch:
On Harrison Avenue in Victorian Village, yesterday was "American Drinking Day."Time was running out on the vacation meter and I wanted to go somewhere. I headed belatedly for Cleveland for the art museum. Would've liked to have seen Lake Erie and visited Eleana of My Domestic if she'd have me. Bt this was a single-mission thing. Totally forgot, of course, about the 2-hour meter and so received a $25 parking ticket. Ouch. But with my "free parking" decal operative, aka ticket, I didn't have to feed the meter and walked around outside and came across a breathtaking water fountain with appropriate mythological statuary (i.e. breasts and penises). Also explored a couple of the old churches on the grounds of Case Western Reserve university which was within spitting distance.
Friends Chuck Drierson, 33, and Sam Everett, 29, started celebrating the holiday at 10:45 a.m. in honor of Drierson, who in two weeks will move with his wife to her native Germany.
Commemorative activities, apparently not found in Germany, included drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon, listening to country music and wearing flip-flops.
Drierson's last day of work as a sales manager at an auto-parts company was Friday; Everett used a vacation day from his OSU job in information technology, telling his good-spirited boss that he would be drinking all day.
"It's all about relaxation," Drierson said. "Very rarely do you have a good beer buzz on a Monday at 5 p.m."
Sitting on their porch, his wife, Geraldine Van Gogswaardt, laughed and rolled her eyes as the guys stood on opposite sides of the street, throwing a tennis ball to each other - or into bushes and onto parked cars.
"Already, the stories and the pictures," she said, shaking her head.
"They built a pyramid of what they had to drink..."
Art Museum Shots: