So we have type cast this zealot of golf vanities as our modern day Scotish Savonarola? We might as well make a sequel while we are at it. I assume this is a sequel of the movie or book, "The Agony and the Ecstasy".
We need to find more modern day characters to play the proper role. Well it is set in the Renaissance, and we do have an artist who calls his firm, that. So Tom gets to be Buonarotti? Sir Bob, with all your munificent offers of sharing the CPC, MPCC Cistine Chapel of golf, you surely are Lorenzo. Then again, the benevolent dictator or the fellow that benevolently runs our little cyber world, must be Machiavellian and role to be played by Ran. TEP, you'd make a good Benvenuto Cellini with all the escapes of your jaunt through life. I'm afraid I might have to place your two nemeses and detractors of Merion epic in the Borgia family. WE may have to get Vinnie Kmetz to write this all up in the Irving Stone tradition. Although we all know Jay Flemma is salivating to write this 'Agony and Ecstasy' modern reprise episode, after he finishes "Name that Rose" part due.
So anywho... Michelangelo said this about 'Love' and his long love suffering for a "him!"?
But it may express more about my feeling towards my golf game (no pun or correlation intended)
A goiter it seems I got from this backward craning (backswing)
like the cats get there in Lombardy, or wherever
—bad water, they say, from lapping their fetid river.
My belly, tugged under my chin, 's all out of whack. (my putting)
Beard points like a finger at heaven. Near the back
of my neck, skull scrapes where a hunchback's lump would be. (I'm past parallel at the top)
I'm pigeon-breasted, a harpy! Face dribbled—see?— (golf whore)
like a Byzantine floor, mosaic. From all this straining
my guts and my hambones tangle, pretty near. (I loose a lot of skins)
Thank God I can swivel my butt about for ballast.
Feet are out of sight; they just scuffle around, erratic. ( once in a while I do hit it good - just not too pretty)
Up front my hide's tight elastic; in the rear
it's slack and droopy, except where crimps have callused.
I'm bent like a bow, half-round, type Asiatic. (I'm getting old and golf has become a painful obsession)
Not odd that what's on my mind,
when expressed, comes out weird, jumbled. Don't berate; (I commiserate with my golf friends at 19th hole)
no gun with its barrel screwy can shoot straight. ( Can I really expect to hit it true with all these swing thoughts contorting my mind?)
Giovanni, come agitate
for my pride, my poor dead art! I don't belong! (alright, who wants to play johnny?)
Who's a painter? (golfer) Me? No way! They've got me wrong!
At which point Lorenzo observed:
Quant’è bella giovinezza
che si fugge tuttavia!
Chi vuol esser lieto, sia:
(that one is for Pietro Pallotta)
Ciao