FRIDAY I’VE GOT MONDAY ON MY MIND

WHY THE HELL ISN'T IT RAINING? It's a lovely 65º Fall day, the kind that's custom-made for spending the afternoon knocking down pins and pressing bets. Quitting the game has been a cinch until now. Now the balata hits the cart path. And I've fought back by lining up Friday afternoon meetings far from the course.

Only problem is, after Friday comes Saturday. A day historically reserved for an early morning round with Scully or Tolle or Paulini or Palmeri or Wilber or Andreini or Quigg or Tanner or Regardie or Ebaugh or Vachon or Garcia or any of the hundred or so hopelessly addicted golf junkies at River Creek. Instead of digging up divots and repairing ballmarks, I'll be digging up the yard and cleaning the garage. Oh joy.

Not that I'd trade any of it for the perfectly struck 3-iron, the scent of a Davidoff, the $5 Nassau, or the trash talking pricks I call my golf buds.

Not when I can be washing out trash cans and planting petunias.