Throttling back throttled myselfOnce again, I avoided using the driver in favor of my trusty 2-iron. But when my first shot put the left-turn blinker on and launched itself toward a watery grave, I began to question the strategy.
I can't blame anyone but myself for my problems. It may have been caused by overswinging, but my shots ran long, or short, or left, or right. On 9, I had a straightforward 150-yard shot from the middle of the fairway, and somehow ended up hitting it off the toe to end up under a pine tree almost opposite me.
One par, on an island green, was the only bright sequence. I putted past about 8 feet on my second, then canned the return. Most of my putts were short, however, which is something I seldom do: I'm of the "no guts, no glory" genre, usually long.
I had individual good shots, but on balance I sucked lemons. At least I remembered to bring socks--one of my playing partners hobbled around without any because he refused to wear his dark socks from work. I expect to see him on the cover of Gentleman's Quarterly as starting a new trend. No plaid pants were in evidence this time.
Next week, I'm going to continue to leave the big and bigger sticks in the bag. We only have two more weeks of league, and then I'll have to find some other outlet for my golf madness.