Subject: boring, boring
From: Scottie Bowman (rbowman@indigo.ie)
Date: Sat Sep 30 2000 - 03:04:00 GMT
Why couldn't I have kept my big, ugly, slobbering mouth
shut? I didn't know when I was well off. I could have left
Matt to build his transcendent laughter out of all those 'guys,
gloves, balls, bases and statistics' .... And none of us would
have been hurt - at least not fatally.
But, God almighty, as if baseball weren't bad enough, I can
see we're now facing a great grey tide of golfing memoirs.
From 1937 (?) when I was hauled by my parents round
St Andrew's in the wake of the British Open (Bobby Jones?
Could it have been him? Is that the name?) until the death
of my former head shrinking partner earlier this year, my life
has been blighted by fine, much loved human beings turning
into golf balls.
The excruciating obsessionality of it all ... the meticulous
reliving of each dreary hole ... the agonising over which fucking
putter to buy ... those endless hymns to the springiness of
the grass on lovely fresh mornings ... the mechanics & aerodynamics
of the swing ... the hohoho joviality of those clubhouse jokes
... oh, brother.
Damned nearly - but not, I suppose, quite - as ossifying as
an evening in the theatre with Sam.
Scottie B.
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