With the Super Bowl on Sunday, the NFL season will come to an end (oh sure, there's the Pro Bowl, but even the most novice fan knows that that's not REAL football),  the NBA is amost to the All Star break, and there's NASCAR in a few weeks, so there's a lot going on in sports right now.   With the new year though, we also have the PGA season going on, and that has put me, at least for the moment, in a golf state of mind.  Tiger is tearing up the course in Dubai, and then there's the FBR in Scottsdale.  Regarding golf, here is a post I put on another site a few months ago.  Every word is true.  No names were changed because there are no innocent.  After reading this you'll know why my fantasy golf team (on another site) is named "1More3WoodTreed".

It was a blustery fall day, with the wind varying between a soft cool breeze to the occasional gusts that would take the hat off your head. It’s been said that we only have two seasons in South Texas, summer and February, but that particular October day there was a definite chill in the air.

Cedar Creek golf course is one of the more challenging municipal courses in the San Antonio area. The regulars know to rent a cart because the hilly terrain can be physically draining, especially if your walking.

Me and three business associates had agreed to play eighteen holes on that Saturday morning, so I had secured a tee time and two carts the day before.

We met at the clubhouse around noon, which would give us ample time to visit the driving range as our tee time was not until 1:18.

Now, what I am about to relate to you, much to my embarrassment, actually happened.

None of our foursome are any threat to the PGA, although my friend Billy did attend Texas State (Southwest Texas State as it was known then) on a golf scholarship. Billy is a great guy, quite simply goodness personified. In fact I’ve only seen him mad once, and that was at himself on a golf course, for hitting what he considered a bad shot, but one the other three of us would have gladly claimed as our own.

Cedar Creek’s number nine is a par five, 515 yards from the whites, and features several small bunkers and a slightly elevated tee box. About 90-100 yards from the green the hole crosses a small babbling brook, about 2-3 feet wide.

Number eight had seen me reach the green and hole out ahead of my buddies so the number 9 honors were mine. I calmly eyed the hole from the back of the tee box. Walked up to my teed Spalding ball, took my stance, and after a practice swing, pulled my driver back slowly.

Now, every round of golf, as far as I’m concerned, features at least one, sometimes two shots that, when you strike the ball, it just feels right. You know before you lift your head that Tiger Woods himself would be glad to put his name on that stroke. My number 9 tee shot was just that way. The club hitting the ball made a sharp cracking sound that resonated off the adjacent canyon walls like a rifle shot. I lifted my head slowly to find my ball in mid-flight at the apex of a trajectory that dropped in the absolute middle of the fairway about 230 yards down hole. After a heavy sigh that I’m sure must have seemed thick with arrogance, I stated after compliments from the other three, “I’ll take it”.

After the other three players hit their tee shots we each found our golf  balls, and agreed on the hitting order for the second shots. My drive was farthest, so my second shot would be made after the other three attempted theirs.

My second shot would not be quite as impressive as my first. I chose my fairway wood, a black Spalding #3 (I would later describe this over the after round beers as ‘Flying too close to the sun’) for this shot. When I brought the 3 wood down to meet the ball it sounded like a melon being smashed by a claw hammer. I had topped the ball, causing it to travel about 15 yards to the right and land with a thud in one of the small bunkers to the right of the fairway. Here’s the mother of all humbling moments for any golfer. My third shot. Still with my 3 wood in hand (I know, the WRONG club), I stood proudly over my ball in that bunker and took my third swing. I topped the ball again and it trickled out just over the lip of the bunker and came to an abrupt halt. The ball seemed to look back at me and laugh. Totally disgusted with myself by this point, I threw my hands up. Now remember, this is October, and the trees had very few leaves on them. After I threw my hands up, I heard a distinct clack, clackity, clack sound. I looked up to see my 3 wood perched across the limbs of a small post oak tree that stood sentry over the bunker I had tried to hit from.

My buddies are rolling with laughter. This is not the worst part yet. Like I had good sense, I took my putter and tried to knock the 3 wood out of the tree. You guessed it. I now have 2 golf clubs treed.

I don’t get to play a lot of golf, what with family responsibilities, work, and other things, not to mention the cost involved. So I play golf more like Tony or even Martha Stewart than Payne Stewart. More like Ickey Woods than Tiger Woods. But that won’t stop me from playing.

I don't remember what my score was that day, or which of us "won", but they say the goal in golf is to shoot your age. If that’s true I’ll be hell on wheels when I’m 106.