What people said once the extra club sat in the trunk

I walked in with a 3-iron I had defended for a decade. Merritt put it next to a 7-wood and a driving iron and made me hit all three into a simulated river breeze. The iron never left my trunk again.

They would not let me keep a spare putter “just for Bermuda grain.” Slot fourteen is one name. I was annoyed for a week and then I stopped switching mallets mid-round at Ocean View.

Tree corridors at Lambert’s Point were eating my 3-wood. Celia kept the driving iron on the ticket and made the 3-wood earn slot two against a 5-wood. The 5-wood won. I still sulk. I also hit more fairways.

Two hybrids and a 5-wood is a choir, not a lineup. Dorian made me pick. I kept one hybrid. The echo lives in a closet in Freemason and I do not miss the extra decision.

Four wedges felt like a personality. In wet harbor air they were two clubs wearing four hats. The census left me three. Scoring got simpler because I stopped negotiating with myself inside 80 steps.

I wanted a gap printout like a cousin got in another state. Merritt refused to fake one. He wrote fourteen names and a cut list. That paper in the bag has been more useful than any yardage card I ever laminated.