I've just duck-hooked my golf ball into the lap of soul brother number three at the hangout on Browns Mill Road. I have just trashed a perfect round of golf. I have embarrassed myself before God and country. But for Luther and Harry, this is the merriest event in the history of Christendom. If they weren't holding each other up, they'd fall down laughing.
Tears roll down their cheeks, and they've got their hankies out.
Then a bolt of cosmic truth nails me from an odd angle, and I laugh, too. This is my catharsis. I can't outrun my fate nor exceed my humanity. Nobody in the history of golf has hit a shot more crooked than mine, nor with more poetic outcome. A member of the chorus by the 7-11 holds my golf ball aloft as if he were a bleacher bum and a moon shot from Ken Griffey, Jr., has landed at his feet.