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Tiger Woods & Stevie Wonder are in a bar.

Tiger turns to Stevie and says, ‘How’s the singing career going?’

Stevie replies, ‘Not too bad. How’s the golf?’

Woods replies, ‘Not too bad, I’ve had some problems with my swing, but I think I’ve got that right, now.’

Stevie says, ‘I always find that when my swing goes wrong, I need to stop playing for a while and not think about it. Then, the next time I play, it seems to be all right.’

Incredulous, Tiger says, ‘You play GOLF?’

Stevie says, ‘Yes, I’ve been playing for years.’

Tiger says, ‘But — you’re blind! How can you play golf if you can’t see?’

Stevie Wonder replies, ‘Well, I get my caddy to stand in the middle of the fairway and call to me. I listen for the sound of his voice and play the ball towards him. Then, when I get to where the ball lands, the caddy moves to the green or farther down the fairway and again I play the ball towards his voice.’

But, ‘how do you putt’ asks Tiger.

‘Well’, says Stevie, ‘I get my caddy to lean down in front of the hole and call to me with his head on the ground and I just play the ball toward his voice.’

Tiger asks, ‘What’s your handi cap?’

Stevie says, ‘Well, actually — I’m a scratch golfer.’

Woods, incredulous, says to Stevie, ‘We’ve got to play a round sometime.’

Stevie replies, ‘Well, people don’t take me seriously, so I only play for money, and never play for less than $10,000 a hole. Is that a problem?’

Woods thinks about it and says, ‘I can afford that; OK, I’m game for that.. $10,000 a hole is fine with me. When would you like to play?’

Stevie Wonder says, ‘Pick a night.’

Golf Poem.
In My Hand I Hold A Ball,
White And Dimpled, And Rather Small.
Oh How Bland It Does Appear,
This Harmless Looking Little Sphere.
By Its Size I Could Not Guess,
Of The Awesome Strength It Does Possess.
But Since I Fell Beneath Its Spell,
I’ve Wandered Through The Fires Of Hell.
My Life Has Not Been Quite The Same,
Since I Chose To Play This Stupid Game.
It Rules My Mind For Hours On End,
A Fortune It Has Made Me Spend.
It Has Made Me Curse And Made Me Cry,
And Hate Myself And Want To Die.
It Promises Me A Thing Called Par,
If I Hit It Straight And Far.
To Master Such A Tiny Ball,
Should Not Be Very Hard At All.
But My Desires The Ball Refuses,
And Does Exactly As It Chooses.
It Hooks And Slices, Dribbles And Dies,
And Disappears Before My Eyes.
Often It Will Have A Whim,
To Hit A Tree Or Take A Swim.
With Miles Of Grass On Which To Land,
It Finds A Tiny Patch Of Sand.
Then Has Me Offering Up My Soul,
If Only It Would Find The Hole.
It’s Made Me Whimper Like A Pup,
And Swear That I Will Give It Up.
And Take To Drink To Ease My Sorrow,
But The Ball Knows … I’ll Be Back Tomorrow.

Stand proud you noble swingers of club and losers of balls
A recent study found the average golfer walks about 900 miles a year.
Another study found golfers drink, on average, 22 gallons of alcohol a year.
That means, on average, golfers get about 41 miles to the gallon.
Kind of makes you proud. Almost feels like a hybrid.

What if?

What if you were playing in the club championship tournament finals
and the match was halved at the end of 17 holes. You had the honor and
hit your ball a modest two hundred fifty yards to the middle of the
fairway, leaving a simple six iron to the pin. Your opponent then hits
his ball, lofting it deep into the woods to the right of the fairway.

Being the golfing gentleman that you are, you help your opponent look
for his ball. Just before the permitted five minute search period
ends, your opponent says: ‘Go ahead and hit your second shot and if I
don’t find it in time, I’ll concede the match.’

You hit your ball, landing it on the green, stopping about ten feet
from the pin. About the time your ball comes to rest, you hear your
opponent exclaim from deep in the woods:

‘I found it!’. The second sound you hear is a click, the sound of a
club striking a ball and the ball comes sailing out of the woods and
lands on the green, stopping no more than six inches from the hole.

Now the real ‘what if’ in this story……

What if you had your opponent’s ball in your pocket?