Not to win or place, but show

Tuesday afternoon before the Pepsi half-price night rendezvous to see Schoenweiss versus the Gambler, two veteran lollipop lefthanded curveballers, threatens to be washed out. But then the missing sun reappears and just like old times in a snap of a finger, the scenery changes almost instantaneously from drab gray to lush green. So why not squeeze in nine holes to properly acknowledge the forthwith male bonding?

No elaborate planning, no forethought, just consensus and be done. The course is surprisingly empty upon our arrival which means no crucial warmup prior to initial tee-off. Grab your bag, dust off Big Bertha and pray for distance. The anticipation that springs from those wizened old pros, ad hoc judge and jury eyeballing your manic practice swings, an idiosyncratic ritual superstitiously followed ostensibly to loosen up but really a convulated and complex checklist of do's and don'ts, only increases your adrenalin and no doubt, testosterone.

The trick is now part of muscle memory. Address the ball, right hand overlapping left thumb rather than the prototypical interlocking pinkies, and backswing, making sure the torque of the motion forces the left shoulder to contact chin before releasing. Naturally and of course, the head remains absolutely still, eyes locked on the tee. Over and over in your head, one word repeats to quell the performance anxiety in the face of the madding crowd: smooth.

And whack! Long, straight and most importantly aloft, the ball flies.

That is what was said in defense of driving for show yet failing to putt for dough. Something wicked goes awry trying to get up and down as if all that came before simply becomes amnesia.