Ha, and people wonder why I consider booze a necessity for a round of golf?! Pretty sure the only thing that separates me from Paul Howard here is his ability to soberly suppress his inner rage when a shot literally goes out it's way to not go his way. Well, that and he can probably drive straight off the tee without needing an entire sleeve of balls and enough Mulligan's to fill an Irish bar crawl.
Still, this is the biggest problem with golf. It's not that one bad stroke can ruin your mood in a heartbeat. It's that one bad stroke can slowly burn every fiber of your will to live. I don't care what you say. That ball has the blackest of hearts and the evilest of intentions. It completely ignored the path from A-to-B just so it could C the prolonged agony on Paul Howard's face as it causally winded it's way around the entirety of the sand trap only to fall right back into it. That ball treated the basic physics of momentum like my Dad treated the voice on his first ever GPS. Same damn conclusion but reached in the most frustrating way possible. Don't talk to me about backspin like I am some kind of idiot. I have two eyes, they work perfectly fine, and the only 'lie' that makes sense here is the lie that ball just told to science. I don't care how many times that thing flashes it's dimples, because there's something villainous that lurks beneath the surface. It's made me throw more clubs than the most slippery fingered of cavemen, and it made Paul Howard do the gentlemen's equivalent - which is apparently also the universal sign for telling someone to pass you in traffic as you curse their existence under your breath.
Someone, for the love of god, have a couple cold ones waiting at the clubhouse...
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