My b*tch

Last time I had a terrible issue with my 7-iron. So, I hit a jumbo bucket of balls with the dang thing, leaving frustrated and not quite sure how I felt about the whole "golf" thing. But, being the mule-headed gal that I am, I gave it another shot.

Ordering up another jumbo bucket, I set out to make the 7-iron my b*tch. That's right, there's no such thing as surrender when it comes to golf. If something isn't working, you keep doing it until it is. Or maybe that's the definition of insanity and not golf. Or maybe they're the same, seeing as how grown men and women spend hours at a time using sticks to put tiny balls in a hole several hundred yards away. Whichever it is, that's how it's going to be with me. Just keep doing the same thing until you get a different result. And I did.

About half way through the dang bucket, I hit the sweet spot and watched as that sucker flew all the way to the back marker (not the fence, that's just silly, but the one in front of the fence). Not only that, it flew straight. As did the next one and the one after that. You get the picture. So, after a bucket and a half of balls, I had made the 7-iron my b*tch. I could hit it as far or as near as I wanted, adjusting the loft, the speed, the direction. Everything was awesome.... until the last ball. And boy was that a doozy, but not in a good way. Same grip, same swing, same timing, different result. The ball popped a mere ten feet in front of me, but not directly in front, off to the side. And it sat there laughing at me. Mocking. I could hear the club, too, as I put it back in the bag. "Who's the b*tch" now?"