I like the weatherman I am watching on TV. Something in his plain delivery and his slumped stature gives him a kind “regular-guy” edge. He could burp in a crowd of executives and billionaires gathered to discuss completely revamping the tax codes, and none of them would be shocked.
I see myself out golfing with
him. On the third hole he duffs a shot
into the water hazard. Enraged by the
bad shot, he wraps his club around the base of the nearest spruce tree with a
full-on baseball swing.
“Nice shot,” I tell him.
“Bite me,” he retorts. He flips the bent club out into the
rough. Next, he waddles over to the
cart, retrieves a new ball and a five iron, and starts toward the edge of the
water so he can drop the penalty shot.
“If this pattern holds,” he says, pointing behind him, “we can expect
quite a bit of moisture in the South.”
I like him, but maybe weathermen
don’t make good golf partners.
—Mitchell Hegman
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