The derelict's game.

Let us be clear about the two most obvious things in life:

I love to golf.

I can't golf.

And here, your honor, is Exhibit A.



The prosecution rests.

Have you ever seen such a horrible swing? If the ball were, say, a crazed rabbit threatening to eat my nostrils, maybe the approach is warranted.

Patrick and I golfed down at Bellwood Oaks in Hastings. I really like the course. I like the fact it was mostly empty and nobody could see me.

It's Patrick's birthday. He's 20. He's no longer a teenager. He's my youngest. Soon, my body will give out and I will be put on life support. I will drool my oatmeal. I will, perhaps, expose myself. I will most certainly have to have my behind wiped after I soil myself.

Then, and perhaps only then, my golf game will be a fitting statement for my life.

I shot a 115. And that's after kicking the ball out of tough lies, taking an extra shot here and there etc.

Patrick? He bought some new irons with some birthday money and he was smoking the ball like I've never seen. He shot a 101, but that wasn't bad for getting used to the feel of new clubs.

Not that I'd know, of course.