By Dean Kaflowitz
(Copyright 1997)

Some days I'm Jack Nicklaus, hitting greens and sinking putts, and some days I'm Saint Nicklaus, a fat man in funny clothes giving everything away.

I live across the street from a golf course, go to the practice range at least three and most weeks five times a week during my lunch hour, have a nice set of equipment (or so my wife claims), read golfing magazines for tips on the game, and watch the pros play whenever I can get the time to study their ways and try to learn how to be like them.

So why can't I break a hundred?

Last weekend was a good example. I played on Easter Sunday. I went as a single walk-on and was sent out on the course within fifteen minutes of my arrival. I guess there weren't too many Christians playing golf that day (gotta remember that for next year). I was not held up on any hole, so I was able to get into a good groove. First hole, a par five, I was lying three with a little chip shot. I chipped to four feet, then took three more to get down. A seven. Next hole, a par four, I was lying two with a little chip shot. I chipped to five feet and three-putted. And so it went.

Last year I averaged about 38 putts per round, not exactly up there with the pros, but a pretty good number. I also couldn't hit the ball onto a green more than twice in any round from further away than 60 yards. This year, in my Sunday round, I was hitting greens from 180 yards on in and I couldn't putt for the life of me. In all, I putted for par 16 times and never made a par all day.

What would you do after a round like that? I bought a new putter. I had to. The one I had committed suicide. It killed itself by smashing its shaft around a tree in my front yard. Imagine that? I draped a purple cloth over it and told my wife it had gone to join Ti in the mother ship.

About two months ago I was in Florida visiting my parents. I got in a round at the Diplomat Country Club. It wouldn't be a bad course if they added some grass to the fairways and greens. Maybe it is just me, but I think grass on a golf course looks nice.

I was standing at the tenth tee and was just in my down-swing when I heard a voice scream "Hole in one!" Some insane person, no doubt thinking to be clever and not knowing that "Youdaman!" is the correct mindless remark, was offering encouragement. A bit of a waste to yell "Hole in one!" on a 415 yard par 4 to someone who can't drive more than 245 yards, but I was sure whoever it was meant well. Well, I wasn't all that sure. One thing of which I was certain was that the duck hook that resulted from my swing, more than a little influenced by hearing my gallery-of-one, would not endanger the pin at the tenth, though it looked like having a chance for the tee box at the ninth.

Later, when I returned to my parents' condominium, my wife asked me about my round and, being an honest sort, I deducted six strokes from my real score and told her. Then she told me she had seen me on the course and she was surprised I hadn't recognized her. "When did you see me?" I asked. "You were hitting a ball over near the parking lot behind those condos. I even yelled `Hole in one' at you but I guess you didn't hear me because you never looked over." (I hadn't looked over because I was crying too hard.)

"Ah, yes," I said. "I guess I didn't hear you." I haven't broken a hundred in golf yet, but I'm a scratch player at marriage.

We have a hunk of carpet in our garage and when neither car is in there, I practice putting into a putting cup I bought. I was practicing with my new putter the other night when my wife came in and watched me for a while. "You know," she said, "if we put eighteen holes in here, I'll bet you could reach half of them in regulation."

I may be a scratch player, but she wins all the tournaments.

My wife feared that when we married she would become a golf widow. So she bought me a new set of clubs as a wedding present. I haven't figured that one out.

Yesterday I went to the practice range and was hitting them just so-so. The swing I had worked so hard for and which had been coming along nicely was close to being missing in action. I asked the golf pro there what he thought was wrong. He told me I stand too close to the ball. "You mean at address?" I asked. "No, I mean after you hit it," he answered. It's an old joke, but we both enjoyed it.

I really love playing golf. I even love practicing. Maybe I love practicing more because there is no scorecard to humiliate you at the practice range. At the practice range, I can bang away at ball after ball and walk away with memories of only the good ones, if and when there are any good ones.

Then I can lie about the rest of them and there's no card to show me up.