Except for the Shark Shootout in November, our golf season at CBS is now over, and already I’m looking forward to our season opener in Phoenix next year. Hopefully by then, the sweat rash around my bulbous gut will have gone. I hate that radio pack.
For me, the approaching fall brings with it the opportunity to get down to some serious writing. This week, I’ve started on my first novel, which some of the more mentally disturbed of my readers have been suggesting I should do for a while. It will be about my Uncle Dickie, and the other dysfunctional old dingbats of the not very famous Scrought’s Wood Golf Club, and while I have the plot pretty much figured out, I have to admit I’m stumped for a title. So how about a little help from my friends? Anyone with any ideas please send me an e-mail via [email protected], and believe me, the more twisted the better.
So far, the best I’ve come up with is “Gussett of the Wood,” so you can see I’m struggling. I have yet to introduce the club professional, whose mission in life is to destroy the game of anyone he teaches, and the caddiemaster, Flaherty, an alcoholic who lost a testicle in a hunting accident, whittled his own prosthesis out of walnut, and later dies after a tragic attack of woodworm. Don’t blame me, it was my parent’s fault.
In the meantime, I’m limbering up for my foray into the caddie ranks next week when the evil McCord arrives here in Dallas for the Senior PGA Tour’s Bank One Championship at Bent Tree. I think it’s on ESPN, but that could be the first piece of bad advice I’ll give. No doubt, there will be more to follow.