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WR Marshall

WR Marshall is a syndicated golf columnist based Charleston, S.C.

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Rangers, the last bastion of the true amateur. They don’t get paid, they have little or no training, most of the time they don’t even get a shirt. They’re the men and women who have a love of the game and a lot of free time. They cruise the links and keep the game running smoothly…when they’re not driving real slow along the rough looking for lost Pro V1s.

I came to golf late in life. Not the AARP rate if I play before 8 a.m., and don't forget the senior discount in the club house late, but a bit too late too have the muscle memory I’d have if I’d played as a kid.

Hence, I have days where it looks like I can play, and I may be able to sniff 80, but those are countered by a greater number of days when I hack it up so badly I give my playing partners permission to me from course like I’m the gopher in Caddyshack.

I spent my youth surfing and climbing and getting hit in the head and jumping off things that should have resulted in insurance canceling injury. Somehow I dodged that bullet, and when sense finally found a way into my addled, waterlogged brain, golf found me a willing pupil.

If you play golf you know the truth: Golf clubs are inherently evil. Every one of them will betray you at some point.

From your putter through your driver, each Hell spawn is just waiting for you to press the bet, or be two up with one to play (ask Phil), and when that moment comes, they stick it to you.

I am a golfer. I know this because I have this sweet pair of shorts with little embodied golf flags on them that only a golfer can wear.

It’s this simple bit of J. Crew attire that marks my psychology as not just someone who plays golf, but as someone who is a golfer. And there’s a big difference.



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