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ummer golf in North Carolina can be brutal, and I generally decline opportunities to ‘walk a round’. Of course, given that my camouflage bag came standard with a frosty beverage cooler on the front, an air-tight chamber near the top for the preservation of long-forgotten stogies, and doesn’t stand up on its own, I don’t really have a choice. I prefer my golf excursions riding with Alexa grooving out Margaritaville-tunes.
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On a recent night, before a morning round, I slept soundly to dreams of prodigious captain’s choice drives. So soundly, in fact, I never heard the storms that rumbled through.
The 8:30 AM tee time arrived quickly. Triple digit heat indexes and temporary greens meant the course was virtually abandoned. As I hoisted my loaded bag out of the back of my
