There is a moment driving to the course where I ask myself, “Should I turn around and just go back home and clean out the garage?” It is a fleeting moment. One I would assume an addict might feel seconds before they fall off the wagon. This is the struggle of a permanent golf loser.

It isn’t because I don’t want to play golf, and it isn’t because I don’t love the game and everything it embodies as an activity. I feel this way because I lose nearly $40 dollars a weekend betting on myself to win when there is no chance I will.

Think of it like this – you go to the horse track and place a $40 bet on “Wicked Walken”, because you love Christopher Walken and for no other reason, to win, place, or show. He is a 20-1 long shot but you love his name and you just want to have some fun with your buddies and who knows, maybe he pulls it off. Then two minutes before post time, the announcer comes over the PA to let the crowd know that horse #8, is a scratch and you now have exactly ZERO percent chance of winning your bet.

That’s the aforementioned feeling and the constant struggle of a golf loser stepping up to the tee box Saturday mornings at 10 am. Defeated before I even begin.

Later idiots.