Sure Cures

Heart lightened, we returned home and went out for one last round with our favorite gadgets before they wound up next to the scuba gear in the far corner of the basement. We had high hopes. If all the ads were true about our Miracleflites, the mercury-loaded driver, the Enforcer weighted grips, our last Power Tee, the Foot Wedge, the Power Shirt, the Hooker, the Head Freezer and, of course, the Stable Flexor, according to our calculations, we would be hitting our drives 495 yards. We would have to chip back to most of the par 4s.

Naturally, we schlaffed it all over the place on our way to a 97.

But it felt right. The game had held all that stuff off. If we were going to get better, we would have to do it. No secrets or miracles. As we were happily replacing the flag at 18, we heard a voice from behind calling, "Hey, mister...."

It was him, the leaf blower, the infernal green-overalled pest who had started this whole mess in the first place.

"What?" we said.

"Mind if I give you a little tip?"

"What is it?"

"You got droopy knees."