TEE MINUS 16 DAYS

SOLO SATURDAY MORNING AT RCC. Just me, a coupla ProV's and a Perdomo Habano. A lonely round laced with a cloak of doom. Doom eminating from the ground, my stogie, the heavy air, the oh-so-down economy and the oh-so-near end of my golf days for the next 365.

I'm behind a foursome and in front of the women's member/member. It's slower than 95 at rush hour. To pace myself, I decide to play two balls: One from the back tees and one from the blues. After six holes, Mr. Tips is 1 up on Blue Man. 

I catch up to the group ahead of me on 7 and my next-door neighbor Randy offers to let me play through. I decline so I can better wallow in the gloom. I watch the smoke curl up from the cigar clenched between my teeth and the optimist in me wonders if my sabbatical from the game will lead to a healthier lifestyle full of running, weightlifting and yoga. 

"Keep dreaming," says a contrary voice inside me. 

Mr. Tips hits a 4-iron short and left of the green onto a strip of fairway, while Blue Man uses a 9-iron to put his ball on the dance floor. But just as it looks like the match will even up, Tips makes a nice chip and gets up and down for par. Blue three-jacks it and drops another hole. Two down with two to play. Dormie. 

That's what life feels like today. If you work hard and grind it out, you might get lucky and break even. Not exactly The American Dream.

As I wait on the 9th tee box, I wish I'd brought my fishing rod. A large bass leaps from Goose Creek into the Potomac where the river and creek meet at the confluence nearby. Mr. Tips hammers his drive left-center, and Blue Man bunts one out to the right side of the fairway. Both wind up bogying the hole, and Mr. Tips takes the match 1 up. 

Suddenly we are surrounded by a flurry of monarch butterflies clapping their wings in silent applause as if to say, "Lighten up."

Jack Nicklaus once said, "Resolve never to quit,

never to give up, no matter what the situation." 

But Jack never claimed he was leaving the game. Oh wait a minute....

Now, now. I know Jack Nicklaus. And I'm no Jack Nicklaus. 

I've got to go through with this. Four weeks from today will be my last round for a year. I'm committed. Or is that I ought to be committed?

Today I got an email from Eric Tracy a.k.a. The Mulligan Man (see themulliganman.com).

And it wasn't just any old heyhowyadoinwhassup? It was an invitation to go to Vegas in November, play golf for three days, and chomp on stogies for a night or two while sucking down copious cocktails and telling the raunchiest golf jokes our early onset plagued memories can recall with an accomplished crew of fellow Golfoholics.

How can I possibly go?

How can I possibly not go?

It's not even quittin' time yet, and I'm already losing my battle to overcome my addiction for a year. I've fallen off the wagon and I can't get up.

Can I grandfather in the weekend? We've been planning it since Mully called from Vegas after the last Big Smoke. I was walking into a Springsteen concert in DC, and Mully's passion for putting this weekend together matched the Boss's onstage. If you've ever seen Bruce, you know what I'm talking about. 

I can't disappoint him with a no-show.

I search my soul and wonder if I could possibly go and not play golf. 

The current odds in Vegas are 365 to 1 against it.

The ad guy in me takes solace in the slogan "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."

But the writer in me says "No way Jose, this is full tilt disclosure. What happens in Vegas goes in the blog."

I'm f#cked.

DAMN. One month left before giving up the game. 

I get the shakes just thinking about it. I'm going to need medication. Physical restraints. A straitjacket and a drool cup.

My golf buddies look at me like I'm 51 cards shy of a full deck. I used to be the king of clubs. Now I'm the goddamn joker. And I don't dare mention it in front of their wives or I'll never hear the end of it. Because neither will they. Their wives will hound them until they finally cry uncle and join me in my monastic pursuit of the bogey-free existence. And that's when I'll either need to hire a bodyguard or jack up my insurance. 

Quitting golf for a year is not going to make me a lot of friends. Whose lame ass idea was this, anyway? My wife likes to claim it was hers, and I'm all to happy to give her credit.

I wonder if she realizes I'm going to be around the house a lot more. In her hair like Dippity-do. She may live to regret this.

And odds are she will not be alone.