Who was that guy?

Ever go to the range and hit the ball like an absolute genius? The skill just comes out of nowhere and like BAM! you drill flush shot after flush shot. And you know a few dudes have been watching, thinking, "Damn, that's a good swing." It's like you've left your body because you're not even thinking about golf, or swinging, or anything. You're simply a force of nature.

Then, of course, a few days later you head to your fav course, thinking you've got the game licked. You tee the ball up, go to that place inside yourself where you think all good shots emanate from, take the club back and FWACK! The ball jumps off the toe of your driver, sputters to the right about 100 yards, takes out an innocent pigeon, disappears into the forest, rattles around for a few seconds before vanishing behind the event horizon of impenetrable brush. Behind you, you think you hear someone whisper, "Damn that guy's swing sucks."

What happened? Hell, I don't know. Maybe (_insert your deity of choice_) gave you a break and smiled on your from where ever he/she/it resides. Maybe you deluded yourself into thinking you were better than you really are.

"Hold on," you say, "I am that good. I have proof--remember me at the range, the jealous gawkers in the stalls next to me. They liked me, they really liked me!"

Yeah, I remember you at the range, but that was only one day. You didn't think that you would play like that forever, did you? Please, tell me you didn't. It's okay. You can trust me. C'mon, admit it--you thought you had conquered golf forever. Ah, you poor, poor, sad, hairless monkey. Why do the good have to die so young, why do they have to be deceived into thinking a day--one good day at the range--can last forever? (and no, those are not song lyrics from Air Supply.)

If it's any consolation, remeber that we've all done it. We've all been stupid enough--no, make that hopeful enough--to dream we'd finally climbed the mountain, that our flag, now firmly planted on the summit, would remain there day after day, weekend after weekend, 19th hole after 19th hole. If you had only turned back once as you descended the mountain, you would have seen that the flag was gone before you even put it up.

So just accept that sometimes, and unfortunately, at the range when no one is watching and there's nothing on the line, you play great. And sometimes you play lousy. That's why (_insert your deity of choice here_) invented beer.

Of course, I could be wrong.