This is real golf. I’m talking back-alley ball divot backspin beat-em-ups. This isn’t your dad’s golf. Take your putters and plaid pants to the municipal course and bury them and yourself six feet under the fairway. This is the sport of kings, writ in the blood of your enemies. Flay their limbs. Splay them on flagpoles like the Vlad of the sun visor. You are the lord of the links. Your wedge was tempered in Hephaestus’ forge. Your driver was hewn from the trunk of Yggdrasil. Your irons are irrational numbers. Your tees are the scrimshawed bones of any loser who ever hit above par. You’ve never even seen par. You’re an ornithologist of the outward nine. You clobbered the ancient mariner in the ribs and slung that albatross around your neck like a feathered boa. They’ll need to invent new birds for the kinds of shots you’ve been sinking. This is real golf. I’m talking quicksand…
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