PAR FIVE--- ON THE GREEN IN FOUR!

... you won't believe it... or maybe you will. I've gradually been improving my swing, which means my accuracy, consistency and distance. Shirley is very encouraging and she's a much better golfer... more accurate, consistent and a long driver with her Callaway Big Bertha driver.

On one particularly beautiful par 5 hole, which means the green is over 500 yards away from the tee, I strung together 4 long, accurate shots, so that, miracle of miracles, I was on the green in 4, which meant my next shot, a putt, could have been a par, which as you can well imagine, is rare for me, to get a 5 on a par 5. It was a long putt, so to two-putt would be a bogey, which is pretty good for me. Imagine, writing down a 6 on a par 5. But I still had a chance for par.

I hit it to hard and it went past the hole maybe 10 yards. Then I missed it again, the ball was way too short. Then I missed it again, it was off to the left. Then I missed it again, though the ball was one foot from the hole. So I got a ten instead of a five. It is so embarrassing to write down double digits in a friendly game, so I wrote down a 9. Shirley is agreeable to this as she is not a stickler for the rules, except she wants me to drive the cart on the path instead of where it is marked, carts don't go here. She likes pristine fairways and greens and so do I, but sometimes my legs hurt and...

So I am trying to figure out... what the fuck!? One way to deal with the irritation and frustration and impotence, the embarrassment and hint of inadequacy, is to blame the golf gods. I was getting too cocky, being on in 4, stringing together 4 long drives, mostly with my 4 iron. They set me back for my own good. I might be getting an incurable case of hubris. I might begin to think of myself as a latent athlete. I might think I have some pretty good neural tracts, tracts that can learn and replay and hit long, straight drives all the time, like on television.

Same on the next hole. Five putts instead of two. Putting should be easy. I am usually pretty good at it because putting doesn't require any strength, just steadiness, concentration, brains, determination, relaxation and the ability to sink the fucking ball in the hole! The hole used to be hundreds of yards away. Now it is only a few feet! It should be simple and easy. It used to be.

But I hit four straight long drives in a row, and I was on the green in 4.

So I started analyzing again. It wasn't the gods. It was my unconscious. I knew I had a recurrent pattern of self-defeat, just when I was succeeding or winning or feeling real good about my athletic potential. Something cuts me off at the knees. You can't tell by looking at me. I'm addressing the ball as usual, taking my time, making a few calculations, concentrating my attention, relaxing and just hit the fucking ball.

GET IN THE HOLE!!! Is what the crowd yells for a crucial putt, especially a long one.

The "Inner Game of Golf" says to imagine the whole as a dark hole in space, huge and sucking everything into it by an overwhelmingly powerful gravitational force. Michael Jordan, when he is on, says the hoop looks like a big bushel basket. Great athletes get in a zone. Ted Williams used to see the ball coming at him in slow-motion and he can just wait for the pitch to get to him and he can hit it out of the park.

It's got something to do with my youth. I never won a race. I was always 'it' the longest in tag. I hardly ever won at one-wall handball, though I played thousands of games. I was pretty good at it, but never as good as my fleet-footed wop friend. I never was able to beat up a bully, so I resorted to beating up his kid brother, like I was 8 and the kid was 5. Speak of 'schmucky.'

I've been in psychoanalysis for thousands of hours and have resolved as much as is humanly possible, but I cannot kill my father, my good old, kind, affectionate, hard-working father, my good OLD father, who was 60 when I was born. I was the undisputed favorite of my mother, which gave me a lot of self-esteem, ambition and a big ego, but I knew I was only a kid and my pop could break me in two. I also had fantasies of caving in the heads of my wop-tormenters, but then I would get the electric chair. Not as lucky as Rosner, coached by a killer. I wish I was coached by a killer to be a killer.

Instead, I have to deal with this inhibitions that keep me from par or a bogey and make my golf score embarrassing, even though I can still play with the big boys and Shirley is delighted that I keep her company on the links and that I try and that sometimes I show improvement, even though my body and mind are falling apart.

I had a death-dream last night. Tried to make love this afternoon. It was a beautiful day up north... after golf... after a shower... and Shirley had multiple orgasms and I had none. It was kind of lovely, reminding me of a former time...

But... I coulda bin a contendah... really.... I coulda, if only... if only... I didn't have an Oedipus complex. It's good to have a shicksa goddess, because I fooled my unconscious into thinking that Shirley is not my mother. Shirley is normal and healthy and not given to seductiveness or domination or controlling or making me dependent.

So why can't I have it all and sink a putt after I'm on the green in 4? Why do I have to die? Why do I have to deteriorate and not be able to come?

I hope this doesn't sound like whining or complaining, just sharing to the two other Musketeers. Say something back that is encouraging or uplifting or eloquent or poetic or philosophical.

I've been listening to the other shicksa goddess explaining about Homer and the Greek gods and I realize from listening that I wasn't very interested in them because it was more interesting to read Freud explaining the Greek gods. The Greeks were aware of experiences like I had on the golf course and figured it was the gods, but I know my demons and gods and devils are within and unconscious, and I get a handle on them every now and them, but they run the show and I can't do much without their advice and consent. And they are mischievous and powerful and irascible and temperamental and my days go better after I eat humble pie and admit I can't sink a putt when I am on the green in four.