Posted: Monday March 28, 2005 11:38AM; Updated: Monday March 28, 2005 11:38AM
I don't care how Tiger hits from the bunker. I need to know how regular people do it.
Donald Miralle/Getty Images
"What are you going to write about tomorrow?" my Dad asked me last night.
"Golf, I think."
He sighed. "March Madness!" he demanded. He said this with one minute to go in the second overtime between Kentucky and Michigan State, and about 15 minutes after Patrick Sparks, looking like a freshly birthed baby eagle, sank a 3-pointer that kissed almost every inch of the rim on its way down to put the game into overtime.
March has been plenty mad this spring, but I wasn't able to watch much of the action this weekend. After covering the Nashville NCAA round for SI.com last weekend, I spent the last eight days in Atlanta visiting my family and my in-laws, which was disastrous on several levels.
First, I never pack correctly, so by the end I'm usually left with a hodgepodge of clean clothes. So now I'm sitting here wearing one white sock worn by Yao Ming in the 2003 All-Star Game and one black Manchester United knee sock.
Second, there were a few really close friends that I either didn't get to see or didn't see enough of because of familial constraints. This happens every time I'm home because all my friends work 9-to-5s, so while they're working, I'm sleeping or playing my new PlayStation Portable or catching up on Law and Order.
Third and most vexing, I didn't break 100.
This is my life's quest: 100. The numbers sit here on the page taunting me. I want to punch this screen. And I desperately need your help to get through this (though we'll get into that later). The Tournament is fun to watch, but golf is better to play.
My favorite thing about leaving New York City is that wherever I go, I probably will be playing golf. I've lived in New York for five years, and I've never played golf there or anywhere near there. Instead, I play on my vacations, wherever I am and as often as possible.
Golf with intent began for me on the day before I was married. My groomsmen took me for a day on the links and I shot about 130. That was two years ago. Since then I've probably played 30 rounds, and I consistently shoot about 107 or 108.
But for some reason, I just cannot break 100.
Three hundred and fifty days of the year, I hit the snooze button three or four times each morning and eventually drag myself out of bed. Yet when I've got a tee time, it's all I can do to even fall asleep. I usually wake up even before the alarm goes off, and I spring out of bed and sprint to my car. On Saturday, I awoke to the sound of birds chirping outside the window, which I cared about only because it meant that the predicted thunderstorms had not arrived and I could play golf.