Twas the Night Before Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house-not a creature was stirring not even a mouse.  The stockings were hung by the chimney with care in hopes that badges for the Masters would be there.

The children were nested all snug in their beds, while visions of chicken wings  at Topgolf danced in their heads.  And mamma in her pink visor and me in my Pine Valley cap, had just settled down for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed clutching my Vokey sand wedge to see what might be the matter.  Away to the window, I flew like a flash, recalling today’s bunker shot that yielded some cash.

The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow shined the light of the brilliance of three birdie putts made in a row.  When what to my wondering eyes should appear but Shivas Irons in a nuclear-powered sled with a bunch of reindeer.  It was quite to a sight to see with Bryson DeChambeau in the rear waving with glee.

Shivas is quixotic and unsure of the complexity of his joystick, but I knew by his hip turn it could not be St. Nick.  Shivas and Bryson were stoic and sane as they called out the reindeer by their North Polean name.

Now Nelly, Now Scottie, Now Rory, On Xander, deliver all the new golf gadgets without any meander.  The world cannot wait for these devices to arrive as it is all important for golfing improvement to revive.  And don’t forget the videos and electronics that guide green reading, without those measurements, the players will take a beating.

As the wind blows before the gales begin, when they meet with an obstacle mount to get that bag in.  Up to the chimneys they flew with the cart full of golf stuff–drivers, hybrids, and wedges to get them out of the rough.

And then in twinkling, I heard on the roof, the prancing and pawing of each little hoof.  As I contemplated my next round at Seminole, down the chimney came Shivas Irons, white beard, disheveled and whole.   He brushed off the dust as if he preparing for a new Broadway role.

He was dressed in the usual plus fours of his time, with his bowler hat and red suit.  His clothes were all tattered as if they had been smeared with white soot.

A bundle of golf clubs and new VICE golf balls were flung on his back, he looked like John Daly on the attack.

His eyes brightened by flashbacks of thunderous tee shots twinkled with glee, his dimples quite passionate.  His cheeks were rosy and bright, his nose was a bit of an oversight.   His mouth was taut and doughty, his beard coiffed and neat as a hot toddy.

He had the stump of a pipe, which resembled Old Tom Morris, which he held tight in his jaw.  Smoke from the pipe circled in the night of raw.  He had the physique of a mature Tiger Woods and the confidence to slash any shot

He was svelte and ready for the 18 holes at Burningbush Country Club with the stern look of a professional.  I was in awe as I saw him as if he was teeing off at Congressional.  A wink of his eye and a twist of his head gave me the feeling that perhaps I might have great rounds ahead.

He said nothing as he went into the bag and filled the stockings with the new anti-compression golf balls with a note of apology from the gods of golf-what a drag!  He also added the new golf rules and related devices with a tear of sadness in all the commotion.  It’s like playing in Florida without sun tan lotion.

Completing his work, he sprang back into the sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, Away they flew like one of Bryson’s missiles.  I heard him exclaim as he flew out of sight.

Fairways and Greens to all, and to all a good-night!

Merry Christmas