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Ah, yes, inspired golf.
Standing out in the fairway, 200 yards from the green. Should I hit the three iron or the five wood? I pull out the three iron,
and notice, as if for the first time, the elegant form of the Hogan blade. The square top line, the sensually rounded sole, the precise Hogan script - each of these I admire in turn, noting the spareness of line, the simplicity of design. They remind me of Hogan himself, compact, precise, and focused. How great would he have been if not for his accident? But how great would any of us have been without adversity to temper us? Was Hogan great before his accident, or was his greatness in his comeback?.. a shout in the distance brings me back to the club in my hand..

Turning it over, the glistening face with its parallel grooves reminds me that parallel lines will never meet, and that these grooves could extend forever, across the course, the city, the country, and into the universe, always within a few millimetres of each other, but never to touch. Oh, lonely little lines! Never to feel the camaraderie of their fellows but doomed like Narcissus to be so close but to be denied contact.. an angry sound from far away disturbs my reverie..

I reach for the five wood, and admire the warmth of its gleaming persimmon, my eyes following the swoop and whorls of its fine grain, my fingers lightly tracing the curves and bulges. "It's just hitting a ball with a stick" I think, and I wonder what early man first struck stone with stick, and how he felt when the sweet physics came together and the stone soared away. Did he feel a surge of power, of excitement? Is this the hold the game has on us? Is it some distant, atavistic urge to recreate that moment of contact, when in that split second that the sweet spot contacts the ball, we are kings, masters of our own small universes, god-like in our control. Is this the... WHUMP! The sound of a ball landing near me jolts back to reality. I look back at the tee, and see the 12 golfers assembled there shaking their fists and shouting "Hit it, you stupid moron!". How can I be angry? I smile, wave, and hit my ball, then wander up the fairway, noting as I do the fish and frogs that swim in the hazard on the right-hand side. I wonder "Would I rather be a fish or a frog".....

Wow. I hope your brain didn't overheat.

That's a classic Ian... hilarious... but don't get upset if one of the other mods deletes it, us being a family friendly forum & all. It won't be me though. Welcome to Golf Rewind. I hope you stick around.

That made me hungry...where are the chips...

Ha ha ha, brilliant!! I've often stood over a 5 foot putt and thought "I wonder what it's like to be a golf ball, painful probably!" actually and having those sorts of thoughts now......I'm hungry too.

And what brain might that be?

As amusing as some "adults" might still find the pot-induced antics of Cheech and Chong and drug-inspired literature, making the use of drugs seem cool, interesting, inspiring, or silly does a disservice to society and especially to young people--and, here, to a great game that is best played and enjoyed unimpaired. :nodsmiley