Illegal, of course, but dramatic.
I played as much as I could again this past September, lowering my scores ever so gradually into the intermediate range.
I even caught myself passing up The Godfather and "10" at the video rental place for a tape called "Automatic Golf." The tape consists of a barrel-chested pro demonstrating a grip so convoluted that he swears it makes perfect golf swings inevitable.
I tried the grip, put two dents in my living room ceiling while practicing, and couldn't move my left index finger without discomfort for about a week.
But in general I try to keep my new addiction in perspective. I try to recall the common--but cheering--advice offered me early in my career by a wizened sage of the greens.
"The perfect golf swing," I was told, "is like true love. You search forever and hardly ever find it. But when you do--look out, Momma."
"And besides," my informer added in a confidential tone, "your odds are better with golf."
I'll buy that. Now I just need a pair of those funky shoes.