Wastin’ Away Again In “Commerce-Ville”

Drunk Again

***

***

Alan Jackson & Jimmy Buffett – Margaritaville

I Love a Steel Guitar

(When ‘Done’ Properly)

I Had a An HG Friend, Moniker of Boyd Hudgens–

He Could Play Steel Guitar Like No-Body’s Business.

Just Yet A Nother, ‘Fun, Pointless Fact

***

Street Cred For Vid Share: ms50katy

Gonna Re-Drink this–Screw U Alcohol! You’re A Cruel Mistress. You Give And You Take—Mostly You Just Take: My Car, My Smokes, My life, All Four Of My Wives. My Mind… My Mind, Never Mind… I Rarely Use It Anyhow. Good Luck With It. Have A Blast!

But, G’Damn, She is One Sexy Bitch! I Go Willingly. And I Am In-Love With Elizabeth Shue. Who Coulda Knew? Me! That’s Who!

Most diseases have some chance for a cure.

There is NO Cure for Alcoholism.

None

Nada

It is just something one has to come to terms with.

Trust me Kids:

I have been battling with her ever since I was thirteen years old.

But I’m still standing!

And fighting the good fight!

Still Standin’!

The Piano Computer Has Been Drinking

Cred: MasterBiblicalMemory

*****

If I try to cast her out…

Well, this outcome is

WAY

Worse

It takes a long time to drink yourself to death.

The DT’s can kill you in a week, or even less.

Depending on the weather

“I came here to drink myself to death”


Speaking of… NY City & Liza Minnelli… CNN Ruined My New Year’s Eve Experience!

I NEVER Go Out On New Years Eve.

Why? One might ask.

I refuse to drink with amateurs.

That’s why.

***

I’m just a-sittin’ here, tryin’ to get drunker ‘n’ Cooter Brown.

And BTW, Who The Fu*k is ‘Cooter Brown’?

Found Him!

Bears a Striking Resemblance to Your

Humble Raconteur

(Ain’t He Precious & Cute & Cuddly?)

HaHaHa!

****

I LOVE NYC (or at least my fantasy nostalgic version of it from The Forties)
For Lance, The New Year Only Begins when New York City drops that Big Ball in Times’ Square.
This year they ‘Dropped the Proverbial Ball.”

(Or did drop the Actual Beautiful Big Shiny Ball–I honestly don’t know–Because–CNN)

And chose to broadcast fucking car commercials instead.
Fu*k you NYC! I am finally so OVER You!
(I am gonna remain in Texas.)
IF they did actually literally drop the Big Ball, fuck you CNN because you did NOT SHOW it.
Fucked up my New Years’ EVE Experience
Fu*k you CNN!
(If anyone can find a video of the Ball Drop from tonight, 2020, if there actually is one, please send it to me—I wanna see it)
I am so pissed that I don’t even wanna watch Lame-Ass Don Lemon get drunk.

(What a Fuckkking IDIOT Moron HE is, but THAT IS A DIFFERENT POST)

From a recent Facefuk Post of Mine:

“I CANNOT wait to watch DON LEMON make a complete and absolute ass/fool of himself tonight.

He never fails to ‘deliver.’  And make me LMFAO!

(Watching CNN ‘do’ NEW YEARS EVE has become a Lance Marcom ‘Family Tradition.’)”

Fu*k it!

The Magic is GONE!
Not a propitious beginning for 21!
I fear we are gonna be more properly FU*KED than we already are….
We got No Karma to cash in.

I LOVE Liza—Jusr Caint Hep it!

The below is a powerfully, passionate, Magical rendition of one of my all-time favorite songs.
Way to Go Liza!

“Liza with A ‘Z’”

(Only ‘true’ Liza Fans will Catch the reference)
Bravo!
I have always loved you ‘Lisa’…

Opps! Sorry! Oh of course, only real Liza fans will get the joke.
(But of course, you already know that)

OK. Just gonna throw this in for reference (This post is all over the place. Unlikely I will ever ‘come back’ and clean it up)

Anyway… more on Liza:

“Liza with a ‘Z’. Not ‘Lisa’ with an ‘S’”
–Liza
(Old album of hers that I wore out listening to over and over and over and over again.)https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hWURas7fYwk

I love you Liza!

This Rare Time, The ‘Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences’

Got it Right:

Life is a Fucking Cabaret.
Try Living it!

*******

Oh! And lest I forget to drop this in:

I also laugh my ass off watching these Bobbsey Twin Idiots:
Andy Cohen and Anderson Cooper
CNN, You are a FU*KING JOKE!
I don’t want to be unkind, but these two assholes wear me out with their fake, forced banter.

FUCK YOU CNN!

I drop in something more “Happy” and “Upbeat” Below

FUCK TWENTY-TWENTY VISION!

(I have reading glasses–I can see the truth)

FUCK 2020!

(And YOUR lack of Compassion for Humanity)

“Hey Twenty-Twenty One!

Don’t make me angry.

You won’t like me when I’m angry.”

(Just trust me on this and keep your mouth shut and your ears open)

And of course, I am the quintessential ‘Dancing Clown’

(This should go without saying)

There has never been, nor never will be, a woman in ‘my life’–virtual or otherwise–that I will love more than Joni.

And if you have ‘groan-tired’ of me bangin’ on about (Joan) Joni you are visiting the wrong blog. Go Away!

“Cherchez la femme
Whenever love comes around
Someone’s a dancin’ clown
Cherchez la femme
Whenever hearts start to pound
Someone’s a dancin’ clown”

C’est moi Joni.

C’est Moi!

A Dancing clown.

C’est Moi!

More Joni may be found here (If you give a fuck, that is)

Must Re-Post–Not Sure Why–Just For Fun I Guess… “Armadillos Should Not Golf”

Robin Williams!

“Golf is a Gentleman’s and Lady’s game.”

I looked around at my twenty-odd fellow PE classmates sitting Indian-style in a semi-circle in front of Coach. It was late spring in Winnsboro Texas. I was twelve.

drunk dillo

Yeah, this is me: mocking.”

Poking my buddy (a lanky, slow-drawling ugly tow head of a boy named Gary) in the ribs with my elbow, whispered, “Golf? What’s he talkin’ ‘bout?”

Coach continued, “Gentlemen, today I am going to introduce you to the greatest sport of all: Golf.”

“Coach done lost his mind,” I remember thinking. “Ever’one knows there ain’t but one sport: Football.”

“Golf,” Coach said, “Is a sport you will enjoy for the rest of your lives. It requires skill, intelligence, decorum, and class. You all will search me out later in life and thank me for this day.”

(Coach was about twenty-nine and was going to night school in Tyler studying to become a physician. He was not your typical Deep East Texas Football Coach. He had a brain.)

We just sat there, dumb-founded, but we, to a boy, respected Coach so we said nothing. Although we did exchange some incredulous, ‘What the hell?’ looks.

Coach took us out to the practice football field and introduced us to “The Greatest Game on Earth.”

I cannot speak for the rest, but I was hooked.

Rode the bus home to Granddaddy that afternoon and announced, “I am gonna be a pro golfer.”

Gran-dad was sober that day (see shot not fired in anger) and said, “Is that a fack? What you know ‘bout golf young’un?”

“I know it is a Gentleman’s game, and I know I am a gentleman.”

“Pshaw Boy! You doan know anything about anything. I know about golf.”

Turns out, my Grandfather did, in fact, know a lot about golf. He had actually almost convinced his neighbor to combine his one hundred twenty adjoining acres with his and build a golf course for Winnsboro.

Granddad was somewhat of an entrepreneur, having been in the Grocery Business, the Appliance Store business, the Catfish Restaurant Business (on the Tennessee river), the Worm Ranch business (selling red-worms to the bait shops at the area lakes), and pretty much had failed at all of them.

The following Friday I got off the school bus and noticed two little flags poking up from two little golf greens in our huge front yard. The ‘yard’ was about sixty ‘yards’ deep. There was a green next to the Farm-to-Market road just behind the bar ditch, nestled between the two Crepe Myrtles, and another green just in front of the house. Granddad found me as I was rummaging the fridge for left-over cornbread and sweet milk.

“Boy! I dun built you a golf course.”

“Yes, Granddaddy, I saw.”

He disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a golf club and some golf balls.

“Come on, I gonna see how much golfin’ that coach dun taught you.”

Eagerly I followed him out to the front yard. He dropped the balls in front of the porch and handed me the nine iron.

“See if’n you can hit that green yonder.”

I tee’d her up. Took a few practice strokes, remembering to keep my head down, and then I addressed the ball. My back swing was perfect. The downswing weren’t. I hit the ball and watched it sail over the barb-wire fence into the deep pasture.

“Sheeit Boy! You damn sure ain’t no natural.”

He coached me all that afternoon and after I finally managed to at least find the ‘fairway’ he went into the house and got drunk.

For the next several weeks, I played golf on my private course. But I had a major problem: I had no putter. Try putting with a nine iron. Even Phil Mickelson won’t do this. Granddad crafted a putter for me out of some scrap lumber. It was too light, so he drilled it out and poured lead into it. Then it was perfect. My putting skills improved instantly.

Summer now and I was growing unhappy with my greens. I wanted greens resembling those at Augusta. Mine were one notch above cow pasture cut short. I spent a week or two pulling weeds and planting fresh Bermuda grass.

My tender mercies eventually produced two greens Jack Nicklaus would have been honored to putt upon. They were smooth, silky smooth, and wonderfully… green. Lush green. In contrast to the rest of the yard (fairway) which was somewhat brown, with some grass burrs serving as hazards. Hazards to my feet. Young’uns in Texas never wear shoes in summertime, but of course you’d know that.

I watered my greens every day. I mowed them every other day. Being a sometime gardener, I loved green things. My golf greens were my pride. I loved the way the Bermuda grass had thrived and how smoothly the golf ball would travel on its way to the pin.

In golf you will make maybe one or two shots in your lifetime that you never forget. I made my first unforgettable shot that summer. I had clipped my ‘Tee Shot’ from the tee next to the road. It had traveled about fifteen feet.  I needed a great second shot (my course was of course a par three), to have any hope of making par.

(I had fantasy tournaments with imaginary friends in my head—going head to head with Arnold and Jack). My second shot was from about fifty yards. I had a good lie. No grass burrs to distract me. I addressed the ball. Took several looks up to the flag. Did my waggle to set my stance. Back swing. Fore swing. Clean crisp hit. Watched my ball bounce twice on the green and roll straight at the flag. It disappeared.

“Hole in One!” My grandfather shouted from the porch. (Until then, I had not realized I had an audience, or a color commentator, a slightly nose painted color commentator.)

“Yeah!” I shouted. I saw no need to inform him it was my second shot.

One morning about mid-summer I went out to water my greens. There were small holes in the one closest to the house. Holes! Holes the size of tea cups! “Fuckin’ ‘dillo!” was my first thought. My dog Spot would never disfigure my green. Nope. Was an armadillo. No doubt about it. This armadillo had made a fatal mistake.

I was resolved to terminate him.

mocking dillo

Don’t Shoot! I am only the Piano-Player

With extreme prejudice.

I dragged my sleeping bag onto my belov’d green that night and with my .22 rifle under my arm I lay in wait.

Fell asleep on watch around midnight. Woke up with the sun to discover more holes in my green. Further enraged now.

This MEANS WAR!

Made repairs to the ‘dillo divets and played a few rounds that day. Close to sunset, I downed some strong black coffee and filled a thermos with more. C

amped out again on my green. Feigning sleep, I waited with my rifle and a flashlight. Sometime in the night, I heard him. Grubbing for grubs on MY Green. The moon was half. I did not need the flashlight. I spied him on the edge of my green, mockingly desecrating my pride and joy. Ever so slowly I turned toward him while resting on my side cradling my rifle. Took aim and shot him square in his armadillo ass. Bam! ‘Run tell that, fuckin’ ‘dillo!”

He did (run) and I am quite certain he did tell all his ‘dillo friends not to fuck with my golf course. Ever again. I suppose he died, or not. Actually, I probably only clipped him, but that was sufficient; he never came back, and I continued my golfing career. It would be five years before I actually set foot on a real golf course, but I did impress the hell outta my peers with my ‘short game’, as that was all I had known. Took me two years to learn how to drive golf balls (and cars and trains and such other things.)

But Coach was right: I wish I could find him now to tell him just how right he was, per his prophesy.

Slightly Updated: “Officer, I did Not FALL Off that Wagon; I was PUSHED. Arrest the push-er, not the push-ee.” Or, “I got tired of waking up on the freeway driving ninety.” Or, “This Post is Not the Post You Were Looking For…”

New shit: “Nobody knows the Trouble I’ve Seen.” (And administered)

Fuk it!

(I’ll edit it later)

Goddamn it!

Git off my back!

Author’s Note (at the beginning… Yes. Yes. Fucking YES!! I know! Not Great Form!)

Fuck it!

Author’s Note:

Recent Au Courant events (Afghanistan) are bumming me out.

Charlie Wilson: “These things happened. They were glorious and they changed the world… and then we fucked up the endgame.”

Nuff said?

“Yes Lance. Now STFU and write.”

“Okay.”

Okay, but…

One last ed. note:

This lame-ass post has a lot (even by my sub-standard standards)

A lot of attached… Lancelot Links and Vids.

It is highly (and drunkenly) recommended you ‘experience them all’ to get the

‘Full Benefit’

Jes sayin…

***

Now I know.

Now I know why

Now I know all the reasons whey–why

(“Lance! There is ALWAYS a Fucking Song! Ain’t they?!)

(Fuck off! Voice in my head)

And fuck you too Muse!

Run tell all that!

****

Now I know why I get drunk

Now I know why I used to stay drunk

Now I know why it is a good thing

And good for one

To stay drunk

Simple logistics and meta-physics:

To avoid the hangovers!

“The hairs of some dogs”

As it were

The hair of Man’s Best Friend!

For lack of a reason

Hairs of dogs are in season

***

Time of The Reason-Season

“What’s your name? Who’s Your Bag-Daddy??”

“Me! C’est Moi!”

(Asshole!)

Who’s Your Daddy?

Street Cred for Vid: andrew91118

Tis reason enuff.

To dip snuff.

(And I love dogs)

Amen

P.S. This is a ‘temporary’ affliction. It too shall pass.

“How do you know this Doctor Marcom?”

“Because I have been to Drunken Med School Grasshopper.”

This Computer Has Been Drinking (Not Me)

Street Cred for Vid: MasterBiblicalMemory

***

“But, Dr. Marcom, none shall pass. Pass out perhaps, but ‘pass’? Naw.”

None shall pass thru this life unscathed.

“Oye vay of little faith!”

“Dr. Marcom, you are stupid.”

*heavy sigh*

“Some people, you just cannot reach.”

What we have here…

Communication

***

Cynthia-The-Housekeeper and my Only BFF here in Commerce Amerika…

She.

She is ‘on to’ me.

She knows me.

She came to my door.

Asked me if I wanted to strip my bed.

Freudian Slip?

(Tuesdays here at Lion’s Lair are ‘Strip Yer Bed-Sheets Day)

I replied,

“No Ma’am; I’m good, but thanks for askin'”

She gave me that ‘Black-Woman-All-Knowing-Look’

That ‘Look’

That look that telegraphs.

Telegraphs “I know you’ve been drinking again”

My Tell-All, End All Tell.

Tis a curse!

I have no skill at poker.

Nor do I possess a poker-face.

My Cynthia asked over those “I already know the answer” eyes:

“You Okay?”

“Yep. I’m okay,” I lied.

“I’m watching you,” she said.

“I know you are Honey, and thank you for that,”

I replied.

As she walked away, I said to her moving away from me back,

“I love you.”

She said over her shoulder,

“I love you more. Catch ya later Alligator!”

(Her favorite catch-all, end-all phrase. I never ask why. Why she likes it. She just likes it. And that is reason enough for me. Because I am in love with her. Love is just that way Y’all. It works in those mysterious ways. Kinda like the Invisible Spaghetti-Man-in-the-sky. Man. Oh man!)

As soon as I shut the door I heard my Motorola Phone speaking to me:

“Hello Moto!”

(Note to self: ‘Change name to ‘Moto.’)

“Fuck you Moto!” I said.

Then I did something very very uncharacteristic:

I answered the damn phone.

“Hello?”

“Is this Rance Marcom?’ (Heavy Indian accent)

“No.”

“I need to speak Rance. Is he there?”

“Are you from India Mister Moto?”

“I from Capitol One.”

“No. I think you’re from India.”

“Mister Rance Marcom?”

“English ain’t yer first language is it? I just told you, ‘Mistah Rance’ ain’t here.”

“I need speak to Mister Rance Marcom.”

“Sorry to say, he is in Kabul at this moment getting his ass shot at.”

Mister Moto / Capitol One hung up on me.

Cannot imagine why.

***

In closing

In trying to put a fine point on the point that is This Pointless Post:

I love booze.

I love what it does to me.

I love what it doesn’t me.

I love it when it does not kill me.

(Apocryphal: ‘Write Drunk. Edit Sober)

I love it.

(Did I say this already?)

Don’t cry for me Miss Dementia

I’ll be fine.

***

The (Still) Living

END

*static on radio*

“Houston. We have a problem…”

TBC…

j’espere

(Dat’s France-ish for ‘j’espere’.  Google it! Yu lazy-fair mo-fo’s)

***

In closing

In trying to put a fine point on the point that is This Pointless Post:

I love booze.

I love what it does me.

I love what it doesn’t me.

I love it when it does not kill me.

(Apocryphal: ‘Write Drunk. Edit Sober)

I love it.

(Did I say this already?)

Don’t cry for me Miss Dementia

“Objection Your Honor! The Witless Witness is Inebriated!”

“Sustained. Mister Moto, continue, but sobriety is the soul of wit. Please take some effort to remember that.”

“Yer honor…”

“Boom! Thirty Years! No Beers!”

It was at this point, Yoda spoke to me:

“Fucked you are.”

“Thanks for that Yoda.”

I Fud’kin HATE WORD Pee-PRESS! And, Armadillos Should Never Tempt The Wrath of God / Nor A .22 Wielding Tow-Head’d Texan Boy

I am so much in love with Carly And Carla

Carla, I Have been in love with you for all of my adult life

Jimmy Buffett – I Wish Lunch Could Last Forever–

The Place with No Clock”

Crosby, Stills, Nash –

No Young Yet!

Helplessly Hoping

I need To take/make a piss! a piss~Now, Don’t Miss!

“Golf is a Gentleman’s and Lady’s game.”

I looked around at my twenty-odd fellow PE classmates sitting Indian-style in a semi-circle in front of Coach. It was late spring in Winnsboro Texas. I was twelve.

drunk dillo

Yeah, this is me: mocking.”

Poking my buddy (a lanky, slow-drawling ugly tow head of a boy named Gary) in the ribs with my elbow, whispered, “Golf? What’s he talkin’ ‘bout?”

Coach continued, “Gentlemen, today I am going to introduce you to the greatest sport of all: Golf.”

“Coach done lost his mind,” I remember thinking. “Ever’one knows there ain’t but one sport: Football.”

“Golf,” Coach said, “Is a sport you will enjoy for the rest of your lives. It requires skill, intelligence, decorum, and class. You all will search me out later in life and thank me for this day.”

(Coach was about twenty-nine and was going to night school in Tyler studying to become a physician. He was not your typical Deep East Texas Football Coach. He had a brain.)

We just sat there, dumb-founded, but we, to a boy, respected Coach so we said nothing. Although we did exchange some incredulous, ‘What the hell?’ looks.

Coach took us out to the practice football field and introduced us to “The Greatest Game on Earth.”

I cannot speak for the rest, but I was hooked.

Rode the bus home to Granddaddy that afternoon and announced, “I am gonna be a pro golfer.”

Gran-dad was sober that day (see shot not fired in anger) and said, “Is that a fack? What you know ‘bout golf young’un?”

“I know it is a Gentleman’s game, and I know I am a gentleman.”

“Pshaw Boy! You doan know anything about anything. I know about golf.”

Turns out, my Grandfather did, in fact, know a lot about golf. He had actually almost convinced his neighbor to combine his one hundred twenty adjoining acres with his and build a golf course for Winnsboro.

Granddad was somewhat of an entrepreneur, having been in the Grocery Business, the Appliance Store business, the Catfish Restaurant Business (on the Tennessee river), the Worm Ranch business (selling red-worms to the bait shops at the area lakes), and pretty much had failed at all of them.

The following Friday I got off the school bus and noticed two little flags poking up from two little golf greens in our huge front yard. The ‘yard’ was about sixty ‘yards’ deep. There was a green next to the Farm-to-Market road just behind the bar ditch, nestled between the two Crepe Myrtles, and another green just in front of the house. Granddad found me as I was rummaging the fridge for left-over cornbread and sweet milk.

“Boy! I dun built you a golf course.”

“Yes, Granddaddy, I saw.”

He disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a golf club and some golf balls.

“Come on, I gonna see how much golfin’ that coach dun taught you.”

Eagerly I followed him out to the front yard. He dropped the balls in front of the porch and handed me the nine iron.

“See if’n you can hit that green yonder.”

I tee’d her up. Took a few practice strokes, remembering to keep my head down, and then I addressed the ball. My back swing was perfect. The downswing weren’t. I hit the ball and watched it sail over the barb-wire fence into the deep pasture.

“Sheeit Boy! You damn sure ain’t no natural.”

He coached me all that afternoon and after I finally managed to at least find the ‘fairway’ he went into the house and got drunk.

For the next several weeks, I played golf on my private course. But I had a major problem: I had no putter. Try putting with a nine iron. Even Phil Mickelson won’t attempt this

Granddad crafted a putter for me out of some scrap lumber. It was too light, so he drilled it out and poured lead into it. Then it was perfect. My putting skills improved instantly.

Summer now and I was growing unhappy with my greens. I wanted greens resembling those at Augusta. Mine were one notch above cow pasture cut short.

I spent a week or two pulling weeds and planting fresh Bermuda grass. My tender mercies eventually produced two greens Jack Nicklaus would have been honored to putt upon. They were smooth, silky smooth, and wonderfully… green. Lush green. In contrast to the rest of the yard (fairway) which was somewhat brown, with some grass burrs serving as hazards. Hazards to my feet. Young’uns in Texas never wear shoes in summertime, but of course you’d know that.

I watered my greens every day. I mowed them every other day. Being a sometime gardener, I loved green things. My golf greens were my pride. I loved the way the Bermuda grass had thrived and how smoothly the golf ball would travel on its way to the pin.

In golf you will make maybe one or two shots in your lifetime that you never forget. I made my first unforgettable shot that summer. I had clipped my ‘Tee Shot’ from the tee next to the road. It had traveled about fifteen feet.  

I needed a great second shot (my course was of course a par three), to have any hope of making par. (I had fantasy tournaments with imaginary friends in my head—going head to head with Arnold and Jack). My second shot was from about fifty yards. I had a good lie. No grass burrs to distract me. I addressed the ball. Took several looks up to the flag. Did my waggle to set my stance. Backswing. Fore swing. Clean crisp hit. Watched my ball bounce twice on the green and roll straight at the flag. It disappeared.

“Hole in One!” My grandfather shouted from the porch. (Until then, I had not realized I had an audience, or a color commentator, a slightly nose painted color commentator.)

“Yeah!” I shouted. I saw no need to inform him it was my second shot.

One morning about mid-summer I went out to water my greens. There were small holes in the one closest to the house. Holes! Holes the size of tea cups! “Fuckin’ ‘dillo!” was my first thought. My dog Spot would never disfigure my green. Nope. Was an armadillo. No doubt about it. This armadillo had made a fatal mistake.

I was resolved to terminate him.

mocking dillo

Don’t Shoot! I am only the Piano-Player

With extreme prejudice.

I dragged my sleeping bag onto my belov’d green that night and with my .22 rifle under my arm I lay in wait.

Fell asleep on watch around midnight. Woke up with the sun to discover more holes in my green. Further enraged now.

This MEANS WAR!

Made repairs to the ‘dillo divets and played a few rounds that day. Close to sunset, I downed some strong black coffee and filled a thermos with more. Camped out again on my green. Feigning sleep, I waited with my rifle and a flashlight.

Sometime in the night, I heard him. Grubbing for grubs on MY Green. The moon was half. I did not need the flashlight. I spied him on the edge of my green, mockingly desecrating my pride and joy. Ever so slowly I turned toward him while resting on my side cradling my rifle. Took aim and shot him square in his armadillo ass. Bam! ‘Run tell that, fuckin’ ‘dillo!”

He did (run) and I am quite certain he did tell all his ‘dillo friends not to fuck with my golf course.

Ever again. I suppose he died, or not. Actually, I probably only clipped him, but that was sufficient; he never came back, and I continued my golfing career. It would be five years before I actually set foot on a real golf course, but I did impress the hell outta my peers with my ‘short game’, as that was all I had known. Took me two years to learn how to drive golf balls (and cars and trains and such other things.)

But Coach was right: I wish I could find him now to tell him just how right he was, per his prophesy.