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A NARRATED POEM FOR GOLFERS ONLY
(Nobody else would understand)
They call me an old man. I guess that's because I started playing with these guys about fifteen years ago when I was around their age. Now I'm past 61 and they think they're still puppies. Act like it sometimes, too. But, old man or not, I can hold my own - most of the time. Competitive juices, I suspect, are the last things that dry up with age. So here I was that day, last up in a close match and facing three drives well over 250 yards that you could have covered with a blanket. Then the golf gods smiled and … Well, come on over and I'll tell you about it. Over here - at the Eighteenth Hole.
Click here to come on over.

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