Originally published September 15, 2003
There's excitement in the air for golfers in the north, For in April courses open, and folk may sally forth To play on soggy fairways, among the leafless trees, Their hands and faces frozen by an Arctic breeze.
Or we could be inside, all warm and dry and cosy, Exclaiming at the dogwoods pink and azaleas rosy, The emerald grass and bright blue sky and sand So white and fluffy, of fair Augusta in a southern land.
Why should I brave the cold spring rain with other foolish souls? To have the pleasure dubious, of playing eighteen holes, With muscles stiff and fingers numb in a wretched ninety-seven When I could be watching Mike Weir win in Georgia’s golfing heaven?
Poem courtesy Jim Dunlop of Hamilton, Ontario, Canada