When its bad, its still pretty good

I wonder if the author for Yahoo's "Mock NFL draft" understood the irony of the Lions choosing a wide receiver with the first pick?

After reading, the collective Lions nation takes their spiffy new logo'd jerseys and burns down every McDonald's in the Detroit metro area.

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Yesterday was windy, drizzled rain, cloudy, and a touch chilly.

"Man, you guys must really have a need to go golfing"

"Yes, ma'am."

Six O'clock by the time my buddy was released from his not-so-nine-to-five job and an extra fifteen minutes to wash down some pasta with a Smithwicks and moving my daughter's milk glass over a dozen times in attempts to prevent her from another "oops" moment despite her pleas of drinking competency.

A short course, no more then a glorified par three layout with wide open spaces and speckled tree lines to help you hit back towards your green despite being two holes east of your destination. Skulling the first five shots, mixed in with my past hatered of golfing in sub-prime weather would have brought out a Tin Cup moment of snapping my faux Nike Slingshots like a used Sizzler's toothpick.

Not yesterday.

After figuring out that bending the knees a tad helps gain some ground there was the blissful moment of watching a perfectly struck three-iron (I don't do woods/drivers anymore) go about 240 yards. Almost on par with watching a softball clear the Victory Sports Bar and Grill scoreboard, the view of a golf ball in flight makes up for any crosswinds mother nature was throwing at us.

My score was a little below bogey golf thanks to my Mickelson moments of missing three different three-foot putts, yet there was no anger because I could hear my buddy talking about his new assistant manager position and every note of the newest Carrie Underwood musing. My first reaction when someone speaks is "uh?", since there was no catching the person's first words it became a necessary habit. Now, to catch the hitch and switch over to active listening mode has been slow but will get there in time.

Since there was no time for a full 18, as we approached the final hole for our half round, a crack of sunlight made its way thru the overcast skies. Perhaps applauding my ability to hit a driver 50 yards straight up then smacking a three-iron around 250.

While the ability to hit the dimpled white ball may never be there to boast of a sub-par round, the ability to enjoy the round under any conditions is nearly here.