Me and Johnny One Foot are hangin’ at the Muni, puttin’ for nickels, waitin’ for our boy, hogan to show so we can tee-off. (Yeah, it’s hogan with a small ‘h’. He’s good, but he ain’t big ‘H’ good, and he ain’t nearly mean enough to want the big ‘H’.)

One Foot blows it by the hole and sez, “I hear hogan is jonesin’ again.”

I shake my head without lookin’ up and miss the putt. 

“Driver?” sez I.

“Nah,” sez Johnny One Foot, sinking the comeback. 

“I didn’t think so; he just got that new Callaway with the green NV shaft.”

“Callaway?” sez One Foot. “Where you been?  He hasn’t played the Callaway for months.”

“Oh, right,” sez I. “He’s playin’ that Titleist with the YS shaft.”

One Foot shakes his head at me like I just bought a complete set of clubs, including the bag, at Wal-Mart.

“You’re losin’ it, Woo. The Titleist is history. He’s playin’ the Ping.”

I check to see that my putter in runnin’ along the lifeline of my left-hand (it ain’t) and sigh, “Oh yeah, the Rapture. Kinda sacrilegious, don’t ya think?”

One Foot grins, “Not the way he hits it. It’s irons, baby, irons.” 

I stop mid-stroke, “But he just got that new set of I I 10’s. He got fitted for ‘em and everything”

“I know,” Johnny sez, eyein’ his next putt, looking to double me up.

“I mean, just got ‘em,” sez I. “Like a week ago. He’s only played one round with ‘em.”

“I know,” sez Johnny, drillin’ a double-breakin’ fifteen footer for thirty cents.

“What d’ya think he’s getting’ this time?” I ask, then point to the flag on the other side of the green and say, “Double or nothing.”

“Fine by me,” sez One Foot, with a little edge in his voice.

I get that. See, Johnny One Foot’s left-handed. If I was left-handed I’d have in edge in my voice too.


Nah, it ain’t got nothing to do with that whole Latin, sinister, old Church, evil left-handed stuff—although every once in a while I do think Johnny One Foot is possessed, it’s nothin’ that complicated or that deep.

See, the thing is, when hogan gets to jonesin’ and changin’ up his bag, I get the outcasts. So, Johnny One Foot’s left hand leaves me the beneficiary of hogan’s addiction. Half my bag is hogan cast offs. And not junk either, ‘cause when hogan scores, he scores big-time. There’s no rollin’ the dice on EBay for hogan; it’s retail all the way, including fitting and custom orders.

Maybe that’s why he’s so much better than me, his clubs actually fit.

Who knows why he gets the itch. Maybe it’s a virus like the shanks. But hogan will go along fine for a while, then bam, he’s gotta score new stuff. Sometimes he sez the flex is wrong or the flight’s too low. Once he started jonesin’ because one of his headcovers didn’t match his other headcovers—and even if he got a matchin’ headcover, he’d know the club underneath it wasn’t a match to the club next too it, and he’d jones way worse.

I finally find my stroke and sink an eight footer to get even with One Foot, when we see hogan pull into the parking lot. As he pulls his bag outta the truck, the sun catches the new steel in his bag and we’re almost blinded by the reflection.

He walks up smilin’ and puts the bag in front of us.

“Woo, One foot,” sez he. “I’d like to introduce Mr. Mizuno. The 5 and 6 are MP 57’s, the 7-PW are 67’s… they’re one degree upright. Don’t drool on ‘em while I get a bucket.”

Me and One Foot drool anyway.

He’s back a minute later with large bucket and we follow hogan to the range like the Israelites followin’ Moses to the promised land.

hogan makes a show of it; strechin’, walkin’ away to get his towel wet, stretchin’ a little more, takin’ out his little weight sack and wrapping it around his driver and takin’ half a dozen swings with it—and then…

…he stands over his bag like an artist decidin’ what color to use, and finally picks an 8 iron. He swings it once, twice, then drops a ball and looks downrange. He sets up and swings, hits a high, soft draw that drops dead on the 150 sign.

Me and One Foot are grinnin’ like we just seen Miller shoot his 63 at Oakmont.

hogan just looks at the ground and mumbles, “That don’t feel right…”