jogged for the first two of each five minutes in 35:19, w/ splits of 11:45, 11:48 and 11:46. Something's missing. Kind of like Friedman said about the father in Cormac McCarthy's The Road, "...until I'm the last guy walking, I'll be looking for the solution at the end of the road."
Same thing with golf, maybe. I scored a 94 this afternoon, playing with a 54-year-old kid named John Hankins, a cell-phone engineer from Cincinnati who reminded me quite a bit of my dad and big brother. I had nines of 48 and 46, with 3 pars, 9 bogies, 5 doubles and 1 triple. I drove well, with a long of 246 and a handful over 230. I used 34 putts. My pitching and chipping sucked. All of my irons went left, some way left, but I had only one shank. John said, "No. We don't use that word. It was a low, hot slice."
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