This morning early, I started out with a birdie, par, par, par. I'd built up a fine feeling that today was my day and there was nothing out there that could stop me.

Until at least the endless waves of slow-pokes ahead of me kept blocking my way and making me wait. They just wouldn't let me through, which got me feeling more and more frustrated. There's nothing worse for a good streak than having it abruptly stopped by a foursome of old men looking for balls.

So I asked if I could pass and the guy that looked like the leader of the slow-pokes gave me a frown. After a slight pause of having to think it over, he grumbled as if I'd been impolite: sure you can pass us.

I nailed my drive but struck some branches above them without yelling fore.

Since it was early morning, the sun was glaring in my eyes and I couldn't see where the ball has going. It felt like I smacked the ball pretty good, so that's why I was surprised when I heard the crackling of wood, and saw the branches and leaves falling on top of those poor sods. The ball must have faded more than I had reckoned it would.

The four poor folks scrambling in all directions like they were under some kind of artillery attack.

That's when I felt like just forgetting it all and I quit for the day. I'd have to repeat my amazing performance another day.

I learned a couple of valuable lessons: start before eight if you want to beat the crowd, and when in doubt always yell fore.