"WOW!" he interrupted, as only Mr Science can over an email conversation that bridges two continents and 9 time-zones. "He's Great! He's Famous! He's why I count strokes!"
Oh, my sweet lord, I shudda figgered. There ain't enough room on a scorecard for the two of us, for all his hen-scratching . . . so I'll send this book to Mr Science now, where he will treasure it till it is dog-eared with reading and re-reading, whereas for me, as a lost cause, as only such a stubborn know-it-all duffer as myself can be, I would read it and stick it on a book shelf.
I mean, no-doubt, Utley knows whereof he speaks, and he can help those willing to be helped, like Mr Science, who really needs help like Arizona needs day-light-savings time, which is to say, not at all, they have plenty of daylight, even in winter, if you see how I mean . . . but the blizzard of technoalia, like as if, the words would pour over you on the practice range with Mr Utley don't do anything for me . . .that is. I play by feel, that is, I play by how I feel on any given day, and all the tears in the world cannot erase a stroke of it . . .
But then he says things like this that I can totally get behind...