Now it’s been a very long time, but if memory serves, this game is called “golf.”
We had the pleasure of playing a round last weekend while my mom watched the girls. We couldn’t have asked for better weather, and the course was pretty nice, too.
Truth be told, I’m not that great a golfer. And, really, the game itself isn’t really why I play. It’s the beer. And the cart. And the other half of my twosome, who, despite his irritation at a score above par on any one hole, is still a lot of fun. Also, I carry my great-grandmother’s golf bag from the 60s. It’s heavy, but vintage–and therefore totally worth it.
I usually try to stay in single digits on each hole, and if I can just double Bryan’s score, I feel like I’m doing okay for someone only gets to play once or twice a year when not pregnant.
See that water hazard in the distance of the shot below? This is the hole I finally managed to drive about 130 yards. Into the water. Three times.
On the upside, I found this lovely ball while diving for my own.
Not a bad day.
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