65 & OVER

SUPER SENIORS

WHEN: AUGUST 5 (WED)

WHERE: PRESTON VALLEY

TIME: 9:00A.M.

PHONE: 563-689-4653

___

WHEN: AUGUST 14 (FRI)

WHERE: SUNSET

TIME: 9:00A.M.

PHONE: 815-734-4839

YESTERDAY ON THURSDAY 7.30.2026 IT WAS KEITH GLOVER'S BIRTHDAY, WE WERE OUT OF TOWN AND I COULDN'T PROPERLY WISH HIM A VERY HAPPY BIRTHDAY. KEITH WE HOPE THAT YOU HAD A GREAT BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION AND WILL HAVE MANY MORE TO COME. 

WE ENJOY YOU BEING ON THE COMMITTEE AND WE ENJOY SEEING YOU ON MONDAYS ON THE LINKS. 

HAPPY (BELATED) BIRTHDAY KEITH!! 

THE COMMITTEE 

YOUR VIDEO

https://www.jibjab.com/view/make/bday-breakin-starring-you-ecard/32b8172b-a49f-44d8-98c9-9391ee4be0ba

Well, yesterday was another thrilling and frustrating day on the course. I’ve come to the conclusion that one of my greatest talents in golf isn’t putting or driving. It’s providing instant analysis after a terrible shot. I can explain a bad swing faster than a PGA Tour announcer can say, “He’ll want that one back.”

The scary thing is I’m not the only one who does this.

Golf is supposed to teach honesty. One of the things I love least about golfers—including the guy writing this—is that we completely ignore that lesson. In all my years of playing I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve heard someone simply shrug and say, “Well… I just hit a lousy shot.”

We don’t do that. We become defense attorneys arguing the case of “The People vs. My Golf Swing”.

I catch myself doing it all the time. I’ll hit one forty yards into the trees and immediately say, “I looked up.” Really? Apparently I spend eighteen holes staring at everything except the golf ball. If looking up is my problem, you’d think I’d eventually learn to finish watching the thing before admiring a shot that’s headed toward Wisconsin.

Then there are the phrases I hear myself say even though I have absolutely no idea what they mean. “I came out of it.” Out of what? Where exactly is “it”? Is there a doorway? I’ve never heard anyone explain it.

Yet every golfer says it with complete confidence, as if we all attended the same secret seminar. Apparently somewhere during my backswing I enter another dimension, then accidentally leave just before impact.

If a putt lips out— suddenly I’m a physicist. “Hit it just a little too firm,” I’ll mutter, even though the ball stopped two feet past the hole. Two feet. If that’s a little too firm, my dad’s old Buick was a Formula One car.

Sometimes I blame Mother Nature. “Caught a gust.” That’s always a good one. Never mind that the flagstick hasn’t moved in fifteen minutes and the trees are perfectly still. Somehow a tiny tornado formed between my clubface and the golf ball. Highly localized. Amazingly, it only affected my ball.

Other days the clubs are suddenly too old. Amazingly, they weren’t old when I ripped one down the middle off the first tee. Apparently they aged about fifteen years in the twelve minutes between the third and fourth tee.

I’ve blamed the sunglasses. I’ve blamed my back. I’ve blamed the dew. Once—I swear this is true—I caught myself wondering if the cart path had somehow distracted me. The cart path. It was just lying there, minding its own business, and somehow I made it the villain.

I even blamed the tee, as if a two-and-three-quarter-inch piece of wood had developed an attitude. And the glove… look, we’re not talking about the glove today.

One of my favorites is, “I just didn’t commit to it.” Commit to what? I’m trying to hit a little white ball with a crooked stick, not storm Normandy.

The funny thing is, every excuse sounds perfectly reasonable while it’s coming out of my mouth. Then one of my buddies hits the exact same shot and uses the exact same excuse, and suddenly I think, “Come on, pal… you just flat-out missed it.”

We’re all geniuses at spotting everyone else’s nonsense. Our own explanations, of course, are pure physics.

One of the best excuses I ever heard still belongs to a fellow who topped his drive about thirty yards. The ball never got more than eighteen inches off the ground.

He watched it dribble down the fairway, nodded thoughtfully, and said, “I was trying to keep it under the wind.” I’m pretty sure there wasn’t a breath of wind. Even Mother Nature rolled her eyes.

That’s when it hit me. Golf isn’t really a game. It’s improvisational theater. Every bad shot requires an immediate explanation, and the more ridiculous the excuse, the more confidently we deliver it.

None of us believe a word of it. Not our playing partners. Not the guy in the next fairway. And if we’re honest, deep down, not even ourselves.
But we keep doing it anyway.

Because admitting “I just stink at golf” hurts a lot more than blaming an invisible gust, a judgmental cart path, or a mysterious place called “it.”

And besides… I’ve got another tee time tomorrow.

I’m already working on the excuses.

SENT BY ED HIGLEY AS SEEN ON FACEBOOK!!