Golf is like a love affair; if you don’t take it seriously it’s no fun;if you do take it seriously, it breaks your heart.
The least thing upsets him on the links. He misses short putts because of the uproar of the butterflies in the adjoining meadows.
My car absolutley will not run unless my golf clubs are in the trunk.
(Golfaholics) are never content when the round is over They want “just one more” hole to take away the bad taste of the previous 18. Or they insist on working out their miseries on the putting green hour after hour, oblivious to other plans for the afternoon–like their own wedding.
Golf is essentially an execise in masochism conducted out of doors; it affords opportunity for a certain swank, it induces a sense of kinship in its victims, and it forces them to breathe fresh air. But it is, at bottom, an elaborate and addictive rite calculated to drive them crazy for hours on end and send them straight to the whiskey bottle after that.