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  • Writer's pictureWJ King


People need pastimes and this has never been truer than today. Covid and the apprehension of it rules the day. Any spare time remaining sends you back to the ledge over politics. People examine and reexamine their lives, both past and future. Introspection abounds and the theory and/or belief of a higher power is catching fire, no pun meant. Those of us who have sworn off puzzles, sewing face masks and/or abandoned their vow of physical fitness, thirty minutes in, have peeked outside. Out there they find masked cowards, who haven’t the testicles to face death like a man, ‘my apologies to the ‘Notorious, R.B.G.’ On the other side of the scrimmage line, are the patriots, who charge head on with nary a care of death, lest they be subjected to oppression. Forced to wear face masks in public places to protect themselves and others, an obvious precursor to the likes of 1940s Nazi Germany, they will not be taken in. With regard to the pastimes I alluded to, my choice is golf and the reason being, it’s close analogousness to life itself.

In golf, you tee your ball, take a few practice swings and hit your ball straight away 285-300 yards. At least that’s what we see on T.V. through the weekend. In my case however, I carefully tee the ball, take my practice swings, I use my left hand to guard my against the sun and look down the fairway. This is to give the impression, I am finalizing my strategy to assault the ball and have every confidence where the ball is going, which of course I don’t. I walk over to my cart, down a half a can of beer, return to the tee box and miss the ball. I continue to study the fairway as if my whiff was simply a practice swing. I finally meet the ball and the next time we meet, I’ll be twenty five yards in the woods. Throughout the day I make several, what pessimists would call ‘bad shots’.

On the amateur level and upon agreement of golfers, a single ‘mulligan’ may be given to forgive an errant shot. As I carry the scorecard, I steadfastly enforce these charitable acts. Excepting myself of course, as noted above, I am the keeper of the pencil and scorecard. Perhaps my greatest asset is being keeper of the beer. You might be thinking I have difficulty rounding up chums to play a round. You’d be correct.

My point is, in life we do not carry the scorecard. A higher power, your choice, does. Upon my passing, I shall declare a mulligan on my entire misspent life, and plead, “Lord, may I have another.”


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