My nephew, Chris, is a golf wizard. He’s not just “good” — he’s great. Sreiously, he should have one of those sparkly cloaks with moons and suns and a tall pointed hat with a crest of eagles crossed with five irons. He’s got the Tiger Woods style, nifty leather bag and all the hand-polished-titanium-mahogany-and-brass clubs personally endorsed by Arnold Palmer or some other wildly famous pro player. He’s also the proud owner of 1,269 small hard, round objects known as golf balls. He’s got the funky shoes, too. You know, those shoes that — at first glance — make you look like you have real bad taste. Then when you turn ’em over they’ve got spikes embedded in the soles. Sorta’ like a piranha. Yep, piranha shoes, that’s what I call ’em. Anyway, Chris has all these clubs and the piranha, er, golf shoes, and when he gets the chance he puts his pointy shoes on and spends a Saturday afternoon on the back nine at some golf course. He diligently takes his clubs and totes them all over creation.
A blog dedicated to good writing and journalism as a career. Inspired by the poetry of Paul Lawrence Dunbar. Consider this that small, funky coffee shop at the corner of Main and Cyberspace. All stories are written by M. Scott Carter, chief political reporter for The Oklahoman. Your comments are welcomed, but only if you're willing to include your name, we don't do anonymous. My name's on every story, you want to play in the big leagues? Post yours, too.