I’ve been having a recurring daydream. In it I’m methodically pulling my golf clubs, one by one, out of my golf bag—which is standing upright—and hurling them by the grip ends, on a high-arcing trajectory into the whooshing oblivion of a black hole from which they’re never to return to poorly strike a golf ball again.

Sometimes it isn’t daydream but occurs during my last waking consciousness of the evening before I drift off into a long, deep, restful sleep.

Texas 51
Baylor 16

HooK ‘Em,

W.E.

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