Every time I say I’m giving up this game for bowling I guess I just have to read this! 

It’s the smell of fresh cut grass.

It’s the way the first tee feels, alive with possibility.

It’s that feeling, out of nowhere, that comes as you’re lining up a putt, letting you know that all you have to do is get the ball rolling and the hole got in the way

It’s the thump of a well-played bunker shot.

It’s nine holes late in the day, when the sun is sinking and the shadows  are stretching, showing every bump and roll in a golden light that makes you stop and look around.

It’s the Golf Channel on in the corner of the bar.

It’s calling your shot and pulling it off.

It’s the eighth hole at Grandfather, the third at Linville and the 14th at Balsam Mountain, paintings with a flagstick in the middle.

It’s your Saturday morning game, with a little money on the line and no haggling about the teams.

It’s the guys who look like they can’t play a lick then spend their days around par, not needing swing coaches, just having a knack for getting the ball in the hole.

It’s calling your own penalties. 

It’s a kid with his bag slung over his shoulder, cap pulled low, hoofing it down a fairway.

It’s nipping a wedge just right, having it bounce once and cozy up to the hole the way Sergio does it.

It’s a bowl of peanuts and a cold beer at the end of the day, when stories can be embellished if only a little.

It’s the warm feel of a turtleneck in December, the first greening of the grass in March, the thrill of hitting it a club longer in July and greens as fast as the kitchen floor in October.

It’s the suntan marks left by your golf socks and shoes.

It’s Harbour Town in April, Quail Hollow in May and Pinehurst (Sea Island) anytime.

It’s having the sun behind you and catching a tee shot square, having a moment to admire it as it’s framed against the sky.

It’s the small but sudden thrill of finding a new Titleist, even if you already have a bagful.

It’s the clutch in your throat the first time you see St. Andrews and the never-ending thrill of Amen Corner.

It’s the belief that the magic you’ve found in a new driver will last forever.

It’s the scent of salt air, the faint taste of pine pollen on your lips and the glimpse of a gator in a low country lagoon.

It’s standing over a 5-footer that doesn’t matter to anyone but you and being thankful for the feeling.

It’s Tiger on the tee, Mickelson with a wedge in his hand, Nicklaus on the property.

It’s the little places with pickups in the parking lot, ragged grass, bumpy greens, worn-out golf carts, yellow range balls and a spirit all their own.

It’s the way you practice your swing in the elevator riding down, the way you put an overlapping grip on the rake and the way you see golf holes where others just see fields along the highway.

It’s the way tournament golf feels, even if it’s just a little club event.

It’s the feel of new grips and the shine of new irons.

It’s playing with your father, your brother or your daughter.

It’s listening to David Feherty, Johnny Miller and Nick Faldo explain the game as only they can.

It’s the gentle creak of aging muscles in the evening, a good tired.

It’s a birdie at the 18th to win the press.

It’s having people who understand what’s important, whether it’s renovating a course or reinventing a local tournament. 

It’s going for a par-5 in two, trying to cut a corner and that instant when you wonder if the shot is as good as it looks.

It’s Golf.

And, It’s Why We Play!

Golf!

• You hit down to make the ball go up.
• You swing left and the ball goes right.
• The lowest score wins, on top of that, the winner buys the drinks.
• It is harder than baseball – In Golf; you have to play your foul balls.
• If you find you do not mind playing Golf in the rain, the snow, even during a hurricane, here’s a valuable tip …….. your life is in trouble.
• Golfers who try to make everything perfect before taking the shot rarely make a perfect shot.
• A ‘gimme’ can best be defined as an agreement between two golfers…neither of whom can putt very well.
• An interesting thing about Golf is that no matter how badly you play, it is always possible to get worse.
• Golf’s a hard game to figure. One day you’ll go out and slice it and shank it, hit into all the traps and miss every green. The next day you go out and for no reason at all you really stink.
• If your best shots are the practice swing and the ‘gimme putt’, you might wish to reconsider this game.
• Golf is the only sport where the most feared opponent is you.
• Golf is like marriage, if you take yourself too seriously it won’t work, and both are expensive.
• The best wood in most amateurs’ bags is the pencil.

Golf can best be defined as an endless series of tragedies followed by a good bottle of beer.

Golf isn’t life – it’s more important than that!

What is a mulligan called in Ireland?  Three.

When is our tee time!! – Have a Great Day.

Joe the lawyer died suddenly, at the age of 45. He got to the gates of Heaven, and the angel standing there said, “We’ve been waiting a long time for you.”

“What do you mean?” he replied. “I’m only 45, in the prime of my life. Why did I have to die now?”

“45? You’re not 45, you’re 82,” replied the angel.

“Wait a minute. If you think I’m 82, then you have the wrong guy. I’m only 45. I can show you my birth certificate.”

“Hold on. Let me go check,” said the angel, and disappeared inside. After a few minutes, the angel returned. “Sorry, but by our records, you are 82. I checked all the hours you have billed your clients, and you have to be 82…”

An elderly couple learned to send text messages on their mobile phones.

The wife, a retired college English instructor with emphasis on the Classics, was an unapologetic romantic; her husband, a retired salty Navy chief petty officer of thirty years’ service, was a no-nonsense guy.

One afternoon the wife went to the local Starbuck’s to meet a friend for coffee.  While awaiting her friend’s arrival, she exercised her new skill by sending her husband a romantic text message: “If you are sleeping, send me your dreams.  If you are laughing, send me your smile.  If you are eating, send me a bite.  If you are drinking, send me a sip.  If you are crying, send me your tears. I love you”

The husband responded:  “I’m takin’ a shit.   Please advise.”

I was in the six-item express lane at the store quietly fuming. Completely ignoring the sign, the woman ahead of me had slipped into the check-out line pushing a cart piled high with groceries. Imagine my delight when the cashier beckoned the woman to come forward looked into the cart and asked sweetly, “So which six items would you like to buy?”

(Wouldn’t it be great if that happened more often?)

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Because they had no reservations at a busy restaurant, my elderly neighbor and his wife were told there would be a 45-minute wait for a table.

“Young man, we’re both 90 years old,” the husband said. “We may not have 45 minutes.”

They were seated immediately.

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The reason politicians try so hard to get re-elected is that they would “hate” to have to make a living under the laws they have just passed.

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All eyes were on the radiant bride as her father escorted her down the aisle. They reached the altar and the waiting groom. The bride kissed her father and placed something in his hand.

The guests in the front pews responded with ripples of laughter. Even the priest smiled broadly.

As her father gave her away in marriage, the bride gave him back his credit card.

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Women and cats will do as they please, and men and dogs should relax and get used to the idea.

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Three friends from the local congregation were asked, “When you’re in your casket, and friends and congregation members are mourning over you, what would you like them to say?”

Artie said, “I would like them to say I was a wonderful husband, a fine spiritual leader, and a great family man.”

Eugene commented, “I would like them to say I was a wonderful teacher and servant of God who made a huge difference in people’s lives..”

Al said, “I’d like them to say, ‘Look, he’s moving!'”

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Smith climbs to the top of Mt. Sinai to get close enough to talk to God.

Looking up, he asks the Lord. “God, what does a million years mean to you?”

The Lord replies, “A minute.”

Smith asks, “And what does a million dollars mean to you?”

The Lord replies, “A penny.”

Smith asks, “Can I have a penny?”

The Lord replies, “In a minute.”

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Jake was on his deathbed and gasped pitifully, “Give me one last request, dear,” he said.

“Of course, Jake,” his wife said softly.

“Six months after I die,” Jake said, “I want you to marry Bert.”

“But I thought you hated Bert,” she said..

With his last breath Jake said, “I do!”

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A man goes to see the Rabbi. “Rabbi, something terrible is happening and I  have to talk to you about it.”

The Rabbi asked, “What’s wrong?”

The man replied, “My wife is going to poison me.”

The Rabbi, very surprised by this, asks, “How can that be?”

The man then pleads, “I’m telling you, I’m certain she’s going to poison me.   What should I do?”

The Rabbi then offers, “Tell you what. Let me talk to her, I’ll see what I can find out and I’ll let you know.”

A week later the Rabbi calls the man.

He says, “I spoke to your wife on the phone for three hours. You want my advice?”

The man said, “Yes” and the Rabbi replied, “Take the poison.”

Guys Over 60 (Has merit)

I am over 60 and the Armed Forces thinks I’m too old to track down terrorists.  You can’t be older than 42 to join the military.  They’ve got the whole thing ass-backwards.

Instead of sending 18-year olds off to fight, they ought to take us old guys.  You shouldn’t be able to join a military unit until you’re at least 55.

For starters, researchers say 18-year-olds think about sex every 10 seconds.  Old guys only think about sex a couple of times a month, leaving us more than 280,000 additional seconds per day to concentrate on the enemy.

Young guys haven’t lived long enough to be cranky, and a cranky soldier is a dangerous soldier.  ‘My back hurts!  I can’t sleep, I’m tired and hungry.’ We are bad-tempered and impatient, and maybe letting us kill some asshole that desperately deserves it will make us feel better and shut us up for a while..

An 18-year-old doesn’t even like to get up before 10 am.  Old guys always get up early to pee, so what the hell. Besides, like I said, I’m tired and can’t sleep and since I’m already up, I may as well be up killing some fanatical son-of-a-bitch.

If captured, we couldn’t spill the beans because we’d forget where we put them.  In fact, name, rank, and serial number would be a real brainteaser.

Boot camp would be easier for old guys.  We’re used to getting screamed and yelled at and we’re used to soft food.  We’ve also developed an appreciation for guns.  We’ve been using them for years as an excuse to get out of the house, away from the screaming and yelling.

They could lighten up on the obstacle course however…  I’ve been in combat and never saw a single 20-foot wall with rope hanging over the side, nor did I ever do any pushups after completing basic training.

Actually, the running part is kind of a waste of energy, too…  I’ve never seen anyone outrun a bullet.

An 18-year-old has the whole world ahead of him. He’s still learning to shave, to start a conversation with a pretty girl.  He still hasn’t figured out that a baseball cap has a brim to shade his eyes, not the back of his head.

These are all great reasons to keep our kids at home to learn a little more about life before sending them off into harm’s way.

Let us old guys track down those terrorists.  The last thing an enemy would want to see is a couple million pissed off old farts with bad attitudes and automatic weapons who know that their best years are already behind them.

HEY!!  How about recruiting Women over 50…in menopause!!!  You think MEN have attitudes??

Ohhhhhhhhhhhh my God!!!  If nothing else, put them on border patrol.  They’ll have it secured the first night!

Send this to all of your senior friends…it’s in big type so they can read it.

An Indian walks into a cafe with a shotgun in one hand and pulling a male buffalo with the other. He says to the waiter:

“Want coffee.”

The waiter says, “Sure, Chief. Coming right up.”

He gets the Indian a tall mug of coffee.

The Indian drinks the coffee down in one gulp turns and blasts the buffalo with the shotgun, causing parts of the animal to splatter everywhere and then just walks out.

The next morning the Indian returns.

He has his shotgun in one hand, pulling another male buffalo with the other.

He walks up to the counter and says to the waiter:

“Want coffee.”

The waiter says, “Whoa…! We’re still cleaning up your mess from yesterday. What was all that about, anyway?”

The Indian smiles and proudly says,

“Training for a position in United States Senate. Come in, drink coffee, shoot the bull, leave mess for others to clean up, disappear for rest of day.