I was going to write about golf in this hot weather, maybe borrow a line from whoever said men sweat but ladies glisten, fuss about the heat and humidity and all that but instead I'm taking the day off.
As far as I can tell, it's not against the law to plagiarize your own stuff, so today I'm going to treat you to a few lines from my book "Slow Dancing With Bobby Jones." The book hasn't yet made the bestseller list, but it's only been out about seven or eight years. Pull up a chair and let me read to you about summertime around here:
"Summer came down hard in North Carolina, temperatures hovering in the mid-90's for two or three weeks at a time, with humidity as thick as cream gravy, eased occasionally by afternoon thunderstorms rumbling out of the southwest.
"The sound of insects chirping and buzzing by the thousands filled the air with what for Southerners is background music.
"There are four distinct seasons in North Carolina. Winters are relatively mild, with only occasional snow outside the western mountains. Spring and fall are heartbreakingly beautiful. It is summer, though, with its hot glare and thick air that is the true South.
"In the South in summer, old people, the ladies' nine-holers and tourists play golf in the morning before the heat waves start shimmering but the afternoon temperature is no deterrent to the hardcore players who are slaves to the game. All they need is the seven S's - shorts, shirts, socks, shoes, sunscreen, spray (for gnats and mosquitoes and, in places, bloodthirsty little invisible demons called No-See-Ums), and a six-pack riding iced down in a cooler."
A little later in the book, at the presentation ceremony following the PGA Championship, officials in red blazers stood with other officials from various other organizations and I described the scene thusly in my narrowly acclaimed book:
"Summer days in the Carolinas start out like a dewy rose and end up like a frying pan. The temperature was still in the 90's and sweat was trickling down every neck but the gentlemen in the red blazers bore up with plastic smiles on their faces and bourbon on their breaths, fume billowing out in little invisible clouds as they asked each other in hushed voices why the hell they ever agreed to play their tournament in the South in August again."
Thanks for giving me a day off. I'm going to get my seven S's together and play a few holes.