Yeah, yeah, I know--put those forged irons away

I can't help myself. Call it Freud's death urge, thanatos; call it masochism; call it foolishness. Whatever you call it doesn't matter. I can't change. I have a set of forged blades. They're not right for me. They're not right for anyone. But they're in my bag. Oh, sure, I tell myself I'm using them as part of an "experiment," to see if they cost me more strokes than my Pings. To see if "forgiveness" in irons is really all it's cracked-up to be. Deep down, though, I know. It's not an experiment. It's lust. A lust for using dense chunks of forged steal to hit dimpled white rocks. A lust to feel the "swing that isn't there"--the perfect, effortless strike. It happens. Once in a while. Not enough to keep the blades in the bag. But they're there. Shrill. Unforgiving. Even pros use blades more forgiving than mine. I don't care. I am driven to use them. I know my golf partners look in my bag and think, "Huh, old blades. What's this guy thinking?" I've even had them tell me--complete strangers, mind you--to ditch them. I don't care. Like a mouse whose brain parasite compels him to throw himself into the jaws of a cat, the blades have got me. I must play with them or... I must play with them. Like a fever, this compelling desire comes and goes, but when it has me, I am its thrall. So if you see me on the courses of Los Angeles, do not mock me, and do not hate me. Pity me. Pity a fool who knows he shouldn't be using blades, but is powerless to stop himself from doing so. As I tee off, mutter a protective blessing under your breath and be thankful that you are not me. I know I would.