For my 63rd birthday Jeff & I decided to take a shot (NPI) at golf! This was not a decision made as care-freely as it might sound. For as long as I can remember, age 4 to be exact, when after a certain 10-year-old uncle and his huddled gang of marauding 10-to-12-year-old buddies torpedoed a football at my chest while jeering me on to clutch it and sprint in a bee line toward the imposing, lone red maple, wide-stanced and broad-shouldered, its mighty chest proffered to proudly accept every hue of nature’s rainbow-speckled fall glory – a request I happily indulged like an eager-to-please puppy – and out of nowhere – BAM! – I ended up on the suffocating bottom of a pile of eight or nine 10-to-12-year-old boys – not as pleasant an experience as the more cynical among you might think. This was a defining moment, one that invoked immediate rebellion and a near life-long self-imposed ban on playing any kind of game involving a flying object even remotely resembling a football. Culprits have included: baseballs, tennis balls, basketballs, frisbees, hockey pucks, birdies, etc., etc., etc. I am happy to report, however, that I think I’ve finally found my sport! Never too late to find your flow, albeit a safe’ish, gentlemanly and leisurely game, golfing is a lot of fun, despite the tacit assumption that the occasional ill-intentioned marauding hoodlum most likely still lies stealthily in wait, cleverly queued in reoccurring ten-minute tee-time sorties, and camouflaged in colorful glove-tight, ergonomically yielding Lululemon active wear, just longing for the perfectly inopportune moment to lob a tiny, menacing, pimpled, neon ball aloft in my direction.