My brother-in-law, the accountant, plays golf once a week. The rest of the time, he pretends to play golf. At any moment, you might catch him swinging or putting with an imaginary club—rocking to and fro as he lines up the perfect shot or lands that elusive, yet brilliant, hole in one.
He spends long hours in front of the television watching men in mismatched trousers stroll across the countryside; cameramen like World War Two searchlight operators scanning the sky for dimpled enemy balls.
And again—while saying grace or sharing a family celebration like birth or the coming of age—there he is dancing back and forth, not to the sound of the band, but in his constant quest to be below par. I cannot help but agree with him when he happily refers to himself as a Golf Nut:
The first step toward mental health is admitting you have a problem.