Oh my goodness! There she was, cleaning out the garage, ready to throw away my heavy-hitting golf clubs.
Sherry used her sympathetic voice. “You haven’t used your clubs in seven years. I’m saving your pitching wedge and putter so you can play a little putt-putt in our backyard if you get itching for years gone by.”
She had already dumped in the trash my Big Bertha driver, my wood shafted brassie and my Arnold Palmer 2- and 4-iron special.
There are times when a man has to stand up and be a man.
“Stop!” I shouted. “These stand for more than just a bunch of golf clubs in a bag. They are a lasting symbol of my athletic prowess.”
“Great, Tiger,” Sherry said as she threw me a rag. “You may want to remove the cobwebs before you head to the course.”