1904 Sir John Gielgud (actor)
1983 Pete Farndon (musician – Pretenders)
On This Day
2002 Tiger Woods becomes only the third golfer to win the US Masters in two twice in a row
Have a good Saturday, 14th April
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I stand on the tee with the ball in my hand
And look at the green far away
I decide on an iron that slides from my bag
And set the ball on the Tee
I practice my swing till it feels kind of right
Then set my club to the ball
As I club head comes down and collides with the ball
I watch it fly through the air
I think it look good as it lands on the green
A little left of the hole
The slope of the green swings the ball to the right
As the ball gets close to the flag
The ball keeps on rolling across the green turf
As the ball approaches the hole
I stand there amazed as the ball disappears
As I look at the Green far away
– Justin Time
settle in, shake out,
place the club head,
sweet spot kissing
the doomed ball,
a ripe plum
against the steel.
the Oppenheimer reallocation.
Eye on the ball,
a visual feast,
view the flag,
take a picture of it
with the mind,
eye on the ball.
A breeze, a frown,
left foot forward
club head opened
four thousands of an inch,
of terrible variables.
Imagine the Masters:
“Mr Scott Davis of Fort Wayne Indiana,
you are away.”
Perfection, shake out,
exhale, the paroxysm
of tension, mind and body
The flag appears
as a scrapbook photograph,
the drum roll crescendo
of concentration stops.
The Oppenheimer reallocation
was a good move.
The back swing,
a slow pendulum
of machine precision
rises to the twisted apex
The sword of Damocles,
falls slowly to release.
Scott gives it his all.
Eye off the ball.
The Oppenheimer reallocation.
There it is!
The ball is shooting straight
down the fairway
as an artillery round,
climbing to trajectory,
rising, hanging, hanging
falling, falling, dropping.
Direct hit on the green,
rolling, rolling, stopping
ten feet from the pin.
Could be better but
birdie is possible –
Scott lifts the heavy golf bag
and soldiers down the fairway.
The sun could not
the sky more blue,
the grass more green,
the birds more musical.
Scott is hopeful
on Par 3.
– Peter Kautsky
In the spirit of the Masters this weekend…
I chose a fine, fresh, wonderful bright day,
purpose of which was to learn golf to play.
My clubs and my bag were sparkling brand new,
wearing my pretty, tasseled, spiked golf shoe.
Clinking and clanking strode to the first tee,
model of the sport I would seem to be.
Far in the distance a tiny flag waved,
final location my little ball craved.
I opened a pack of pretty white tees,
then I went to the ground on my bent knees.
Carefully I place my new ball of white,
teed up, ready now, for its virgin flight.
I steadied myself and had a few swings,
knew what to do, for I read of these things.
The ball was addressed and I was all set,
hundreds of yards out, I surely would bet.
Then I wound myself up, tight as a spring,
let myself go with a violent swing.
The tee I did see go flying away,
the ball on the ground, reluctant to play.
I bent to put the ball on a fresh tee,
then studied the shot and where I should be.
Ready again, my swing was a beauty,
ball, this time, did it’s reluctant duty.
Soaring through the air so high and so fast,
just hoping this sight forever would last.
Then with pure grace and a most timeless pace,
hooked to the right, to a pretty treed space.
The ball rolled with speed and then came to rest,
the next shot would be a certain fine test.
I selected an iron, number three,
this mighty shot flew from under the tree.
Into the beautiful field of soft green,
rolled off into tall grass, not to be seen.
Searching, the quest, for the pretty white ball,
awakened a snake, to me it did crawl.
Dropped then a new golf ball out in the course,
lined up my next shot and hit it with force.
Into the clear air it truly did fly,
somewhere behind me, “Fore” came with a cry.
When I awoke, up from ground I did raise,
seemed I had survived with only a graze.
There was my ball in the silvery sand,
sitting, nice and pretty, where it did land.
Took out my sand wedge, walked to the ball,
hit just behind, by the cup it should stall.
Many strokes later the sand was a heap,
finally from luck it took a big leap.
Rolling with speed toward the waiting hole,
wishing and hoping with all of my soul.
Ball gracing the flag with multiple smiles,
the battered white ball, rolled by through it’s trials.
I traveled the green by many a path,
finally retrieved my ball, did the math.
Final hole sum so incredibly high,
I doubted the value of further try.
Toting my bag, I walked to the car,
from this the first hole, it wasn’t so far.
Laying my new golf bag upon the ground,
a Lincoln backed over it turning ‘round
– Robert Gene Stoner Jr