Hot Wind in the Apartment at Two

Here be there tygers.  

Dude, it's hot as hell in here.  

I included that dude up there to reflect what it's apparently like to talk to me these days.  Every sentence starts with Dude and every third word seems to be fuck.  Alas.  Oh, and you have to weed the words out from between my spitting (which isn't from chewing, I might add, but rather seems to be from some odd gatorade induced state where the back of the throat gets gummy, sorta like when you drink lemonade or swim in the ocean...).  But I'm ok with that...  at the very least I can serve as an example parents can use when they say things like, "Well, you don't want to end up acting like him, do you?"  It's good to be useful.

So I got back from Daytona last night and the first thing I noticed was the paint trying to blister off the walls from the hundred degree heat in the apartment.  At 10 PM.  With all the windows open and the fans running.  (If this were an actual verbal tale, you would hear a heartfelt Dude here) Whoever built this damned building was both cheap and a friggin' idiot.  I bet those solitary cells in alcatraz had better ventilation than my apartment.  Thing is, they managed both to let no air circulate in the summer and to let all the heat out in the winter.  Boggles the mind.  I guess that's what you get when you build with balsa wood...

But Daytona.  I wasn't going to go, I changed my mind 4 or 5 times the night before and in the end I only went because I looked at the list of who was going to be there and I liked a lot of them (in case you're wondering, the reason I wouldn't go is that I'm sick of wasting 2 days in the truck travelling there and back).  So I went.  We played a temp course the first day and Tuscawilla the second, which turned out good for me.  As you will soon see.

See, (told ya') the temp course wasn't very good.  I think they did a great job considering what they had to work with, but it just isn't a very good course.  Which worked to my advantage.  I played lousy, gave up 3 shots on the last 3 holes, missed a 6 footer, and was still tied for 3rd, one shot out of second (and three counties away from first).  That, combined with good fortune, meant I got to play on the lead card with Climo for the second round.  Which, need I say, was very cool.  I shot like crap that round, too, missed another 6 footer (this time I whiffed it, a pure air ball), but did catch a pole on my drive and get a Climo dollar, which is also very cool.

So I ended up out of the cash, mostly due to a horrific last 9 holes (which seems to be my new trademark, I'm getting away from the 3- (and 4-) putts and moving to a more focused and extreme suck-ness.  Which I'm happy with, I figure the more focused it is, the easier it will be to get rid of.) and dealt with that long string of if-only's for a while, but that's almost gone now.   

It's surprising to me how I've made the transition in my mindset from bad advanced player to unworthy and truly crap pro to someone who can compete, which is how I feel right now.  I didn't feel this way a week ago, and it wasn't that one round in the lead group that changed it.  It was the comfortable feeling with my putting that changed it, I only 3 putted twice and both of those were botched 8 footers where I was so nervous that I putted six billion miles per hour and this and that and it missed.  (I should note that the other gimme I missed was a birdie putt, which is why the 2 and 3 don't jive up)  I think I've got that pretty much fixed from when Ryan said, Putt slower, you idiot (or something to that effect).  It should be noted that my self destruction started just after that statement.  I blame Ryan.  Bastard.

Doug's thoughts on nothing in particular