Every year my husband’s family gathers at the beach for a week. That’s not so unusual for a family to gather at the beach. But every year this crew holds a putt-putt golf tournament for the coveted Miracle Miles Cup.
Picture a dented challis. Don’t have a picture of it for it is still in Charleston. Last year’s winner didn’t bring it. Guess he thought it wasn’t going anywhere so why bother.
I won a long time ago…and had it in my grasp a few years ago. Only to choke it to a violent death with pitiful putting.
The winner’s name is engraved on the cup and the prize gets to reside with winner all year long….
You see, there are these two guys, the two Jims, who assume they are going to take the cup home every year.
Once the play started, I did okay. Lots of two putts and in…then like always there were holes I tanked…and my chance to take the cup back to Madtown faded away.
This year not unlike years in past, the cup went to a dark horse. Papa Jack. My father-in-law. And if I couldn’t win…Yay for Papa.
I’ve decided on a new strategy for next year.
Learn to golf. (Novel idea, I know.)
Some dear brave friends promise they can teach me to play on a public course — and not do any injury to myself or others.
We’ll see.
Fore now, I only have myself to blame.
Because I really, really stink.
