No Luck For The Irish

We arrived at six to prepare for our annual St. Paddy’s Day Tournament. Despite threating weather and amid intermittent raindrops and a steady north wind, a well-oiled machine went into action as it had done many times before.

Forty-plus carts were staged first, many laden with clubs from the previous day’s practice round. We next tackled the range. Every ball available was laid out along with ten bag stands. As the participants arrived, their sticks were added to the mix then set on their assigned carts.

As players tuned their swings on the practice area, the word came. The ominous radar image of impending doom forced cancellation of the event. But wait. They say it ain’t over till the fat lady sings and she apparently was just clearing her pipes. We were put in a holding pattern instead. If there was a way to get this in we’d give it a try. But the decision eventually became final. It was a no-go. What prize money available was distributed via random drawing.

For any brave souls remaining, an option to play afterwards was given and a handful took it. The rest packed up and headed for the tables I presume.

For us, it was the reverse order of our performance during those pre-dawn hours. Everything was put away by eleven and I headed home.

BTW, after all that preparation, hard work and angst, the wind died and the rain never came. Oh well.

Then there was this:

Transgender golfer dreams of playing in LPGA

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