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If Putters could talk.... (golf related) (19 April 2005)
If a peek into the sordid life of my neglected putters interests you then you need serious counseling....but, please read on anyway!! :-)
If Putters Could Talk
We must be in hell. The silence is deafening, only to be broken like clockwork twice a day by some mysterious metallic gear sound. This is a dark, damp, hard place. You know, the kind of place where you need to watch your back. There is little hope here. Sure we've heard stories of one of us getting out, breaking free, joining the outside world once again. But these are just stories.
Our home is here in this cockroach infested haven known as eudaman's garage.
We are eudaman's discarded putters. Our population is at 12 after my long time pal, Ray Cook, was run over last week. His bloodied shaft left untended on the floor for days.
My name is Tad Moore and I used to be the number one putter. I used to travel. I stayed in the finest hotels. Life was good. I am the same putter that drained a treacherous, winding 12-foot birdie at Pebble Beach #9. I am the putter that brought home the cabbage versus JK time and time again.
But because I missed a few four footers, all my past glories were forgotten. I should have ran when after the round we stopped at Roger Dunn's golf shop. If only I had more than just one heel and toe. I should have seen it coming. I felt the life drain from my shaft when I saw eudaman carrying out a brand new Scotty Cameron Coronado 2 oilcan putter. All that practice, all those memories.
Thought I'd be in the bag forever. I shoulda listened to Hogan, the 7 iron, he told me long ago to watch my flange.
So now we sit here, like dogs in an animal shelter, begging for another chance.
If Putters Could Talk
We must be in hell. The silence is deafening, only to be broken like clockwork twice a day by some mysterious metallic gear sound. This is a dark, damp, hard place. You know, the kind of place where you need to watch your back. There is little hope here. Sure we've heard stories of one of us getting out, breaking free, joining the outside world once again. But these are just stories.
Our home is here in this cockroach infested haven known as eudaman's garage.
We are eudaman's discarded putters. Our population is at 12 after my long time pal, Ray Cook, was run over last week. His bloodied shaft left untended on the floor for days.
My name is Tad Moore and I used to be the number one putter. I used to travel. I stayed in the finest hotels. Life was good. I am the same putter that drained a treacherous, winding 12-foot birdie at Pebble Beach #9. I am the putter that brought home the cabbage versus JK time and time again.
But because I missed a few four footers, all my past glories were forgotten. I should have ran when after the round we stopped at Roger Dunn's golf shop. If only I had more than just one heel and toe. I should have seen it coming. I felt the life drain from my shaft when I saw eudaman carrying out a brand new Scotty Cameron Coronado 2 oilcan putter. All that practice, all those memories.
Thought I'd be in the bag forever. I shoulda listened to Hogan, the 7 iron, he told me long ago to watch my flange.
So now we sit here, like dogs in an animal shelter, begging for another chance.