Sunday, June 24, 2007

Sunday at the Range

The New England golfer is much like the New England insect. The shortness of the life span creates a more voracious appetite.

Case in point. The gentleman methodically and competently working on his long irons was around 60, with slicked back dark hair and the type of deep tan on his arms, shoulders, and face that only comes from a lifetime of working outdoors. He was also dressed in unorthodox fashion.

From the waist down, our man was GQ down. He had on well-worn, well-cared for, and initially expensive golf shoes. He also wore a pair of pretty fancy suit pants. From the waist up, he wore a strap-style T-shirt. That's why I could write about his tan.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't needed to tell this chap's story. He had gone to church, and immediately thereafter left for the driving range, shedding jacket, tie, and dress shirt somewhere en route. After a ritual for his soul, he needed a ritual for his secular spirit. And he couldn't wait.

Our hero was a glowing endorsement for life in New England.


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