A short serene sonnet bursting forth against the moist and dewey greensward.......................................
Below and beneath the 380-thread count sheets lay the musings of a days past, past many quaint and tiny homes littered like so many puppies against the pressing par 4 hole that thrust upward like a wondrous slip fault.
Ay, the very soul of Tom Paul was there, as was, quite mysteriously, Auntie Em. She called out "Jiminy, come to supper, your footjoys are getting cold!". I quietly slipped out of the barn, wiped the evidence from my hands and sat down for supper.
At that moment, the spirit of Nathaniel Crosby wafted down from the Hampton Bay ceiling fan murmuring "Buy Tony Penna, buy Tony Penna". Only I had recently purchased a shiny new set of muscle-back Lynx. Then, as if by providence, the rain stopped and the sun beckoned me to quickly finish the meal, run outside, put my clothes back on and then run, like a flash, to the golf course.
Once there it happened. Yes, the thing that so many dreams are made of, the very detritus of everything that we have cast off of ourselves from that very Forrest Richardsonian hunter-gatherer era. From before the time that architects didn't blow their own horns. Yes, it was truly primeval.
I saw what can only be described as a vision. A beautiful, flowing exciting vision in black ray-bans. Wearing nothing but a plaid kilt, said ray-bans and brandishing a Wilson 8802 putter and nothing else. A very blond vision this, standing next to a well-defined wealthy player wearing a red shirt with two dozen emblematic SWOOOOOOOOSHES. Yet, the blond vision stood out. So to speak.
She came to me. She held out the putter as though it was a laurel of peace and well-being from the other side. The side that only flies in G-IV's with cold Michelob on tap and an even smaller minaret of a tap dancer prancing about the single aisle like Allie McBeal's computerized baby; dancing steps, not unlike a miniaturized Fred Astaire bebopping out for an eveing with Cary Grant and Rock Hudson.
She whispered the secret into my very right ear. She said "I know you want to know, Everybody wants to know" as I paused to gather my belt. Then, continuing "He wants me to tell somebody in case he never has the chance, in case Ken Bowden wants to charge too much for the ghost-writing".
Well, this really had me going. In many, many ways. Then it came out "He doesn't really hit all of those shots himself". That's what she said. I stood back, amazed and flabberghasted. "What do you mean?" I shot back incredulously. "Just what I said, it isn't ALWAYS him, sometimes it's Butchie". I was confused. "What do you mean, I mean, can he just throw his swing like that guy with Madame throws his voice?" She said "well, yes, something like that. I think he learned how from spending all that time with David Copperfield and that freaky Blaine guy, you know, the one in the big ice cube?"
Ah, yes, but of course. That explains it. HE HAS HELP. Nobody can be that good all by themselves. Now I feel much better. Now JWL's boss can feel better. Peace is restored to the uber-universe of the golf legends. Sam, Ben, Bobby, they can all rest peacefully in their Jakabean resting places. For you see, smoke and mirrors will never outwit steel and persimmon.