I am by far the worst golfer in my group of golfing buddies (my son started on his high school team as a freshman, my nephew is majoring in Pro Golf Management at California University of PA, I could go on). Anyway, a co-worker and I have been taking advantage of a local nine-hole course's winter rates (six bucks to walk, unlimited play!) on Friday afternoons. On our twenty-first hole of the day, the 110-yard par-3 No. 3, I teed up my DT SoLo, hit a sweet little 9-iron over the creek in front of the green, dropped it about four feet in front of the pin (luckily for me, I can't spin a ball back to save my life). It rolled slowly forward, then disappeared. I thought it might have just rolled out of sight behind the pin, but sure enough, it was in the bottom of the cup. Holy #^%^! I'd done something that even the hot-shot young crushers in my family couldn't match.