Putting

I play golf as those who know me know.

Golf, I say always, is a game you can only fail at — the question being only how well or badly you fail on any given day.

Ask Tiger Woods, he’d no doubt agree. It’s all a matter of perspective. He and his fellow pros hit a 9-iron 160 yards even these days. Me? I hit mine 100/105 yards.

But then they have to make their putts and I have to make mine. As the old adage in gold goes, “You drive for show, you putt for dough.”

For the pros it’s $1 million, even $2 million for a win. For me — and all the other duffers no doubt — a win is a score I never got before and probably never will again.

So, chasing that score, give or take, I have probably missed 10,000 three-foot putts.

But, so far as I know, no one ever got shot, murdered or otherwise harmed when I missed them.

I wouldn’t play the game if I thought anyone had suffered from my missed putts. Afer all, I miss a lot of them and wouldn’t want all those lives on my conscience — or my scorecard.

You know, in some ways, our consciences are the scorecards of our lives. I can’t imagine at this point what Donald Trump’s lifetime scorecard shows, never mind while he has been president, during which time I read recently he has played golf 275 times (yes, that is considerably more rounds than I’ve played while he has been president).

My guess is when he missed a three-footer he doesn’t count it on the card.

Nope, not me. When I miss those three-footers I just put a bogie or a double on the card and go on because golf, you see, is a game is self-policing and – and a game for optimists.

Optimistically, there’s always another shot, another hole, another nine, anouther round, the one when you are going to put it all together, when you are going to make all the three-foot putts.

Still, I miss my share of those.

But no one ever died on my 3-foot putts or when I missed one.

No one ever dies from a missed putt.

Me? I should put more practice into making the three-footers.

Who knows, I might save a life.