\ Back Nine

On the 12th, I had honors, a term that means since you won the last hole, you shoot first this. But I had a message on my phone, and as I debated delaying my reply I felt a bit of urgency, thought better, and forfeited my honor. You guys go ahead, and I typed and typed and typed, measured in minutes per word more than likely and forgot everything about this hole, forgot about the distance, the wind, the placement of the cup, until I sent my response. I asked my playing partner what he hit, took the same club from my bag and teed up; my backswing nearly touches my knee, and I swing slow and fluid when I am relaxed, when my eyes are calm, and the face of the iron responds like the palm of my hand. I hardly felt the contact, and the shot soared high among the doug firs, briefly visible in the blue, and when it landed, it spun back another foot, 30 inches from the cup. The guys offered me high fives, fist pumps and appropriate profanities laced with flat out curse words of encouragement. Some days, I am so brimmed with happiness my chest looks like the fissures in the Teton Dam, I'm ready to skip to a new life along the streets of some foreign exotic city, like Baghdad, open a flower stand.