Just finished submitting my lottery entry for next year's Ryder Cup, at Nicklaus's Valhalla course in Louisville, KY, and am already starting to feel the first pangs of Buyer's Remorse. One Large, One G, for two tickets, and then probably about another Two Large for a hotel for that week (unless we find something like a Sleep Inn in Hazard), plus meals and accoutrements, and it'll be the price of a freakin' Vortech supercharger...to likely witness the good ol' U S of A getting its arses handed to it, once again, by the Euros.
Jack fell in love with these "collection areas" around the greens, which are now All The Rage amongst the high-end daily fee courses. An example is above.
The deal is, with these tricked-up things: If you don't place your approach just so...the ball trickles off into the collection area, the almost-short stuff, where...you putt, you chip, you lob, you dissect the ball with a sand wedge, you take out your freakin' three wood and hit it like you were freakin' three years old or whatever...and time after time, the Euros will find a way to hit these shots stiff while our guys stare helplessly at a golf ball rolling back towards them. And I'll be standing there, probably in a cold driving rain, thinking, "I could have supercharged Dixi, and instead I chose THIS? Kelly, you f---ing moron..."
And etc...
In not too much longer, a U.S. win at this event is gonna be like The Miracle On Ice, Lake Placid, 1980. I mean it will be so contra to past outcomes, so improbable, that Being There will instantly place one among The Special, The Revered...
"You were there when we won? That's effing AWESOME, man! Tell me all about it..."
And etc...
So already it's The Hope That Springs Eternal From Within The Human Breast. A sad state of affairs, to be sure -- and one you can be sure I will be writing about, beginning a year or so from now, if that freakin' lottery entry strikes gold.
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