Santa's Tee Time

So you want to challenge me on whether global warming is a hoax, a fabrication. Forget that the polar ice caps are evaporating quicker than the nomination chances of Ron DeSantis or that every summer now replaces the one before it as the hottest in recorded history (ok, I'll give you that no records existed when dinosaurs were dictators). And maybe the fact that 500 year floods occur every three weeks is just a wild coincidence. But I now have undisputed proof that those who sound the five alarm fire bell are in the right.

I played golf this afternoon, this Christmas afternoon. Not in Florida or some other southern clime but in Massachusetts, in the place where football should be played in a blizzard on this day. And, oh by the way, this was at least the third Christmas in the last eight where Santa and I had a tee time in this state.

OK, I did ski this morning but that was thanks to the miracle of science (I know, we are not supposed to believe in science), where a few stray colder moments provides a blanket of fake snow that lasts, well at least until Santa has put away his sled.

My son in law and I, along with two friends, took part in this dual undertaking. Skis on our feet in the AM, clubs in our hands after lunch.

And while global warming is a dark tale, with little reason for thanks, on this particular day it provides ample fodder for at least a short piece focused on clearing some of the clutter in my head.

 I must say, cursing the golf gods in the middle of winter is not a joy. And worrying about slices and missed putts is not the present I hoped Santa would bring me this year.

Oh, by the way, I think Santa is wildly overdressed these days and should really consider shedding a layer or two next year. Someone should inform him that global warming and Christmas golf are here to stay.

Santa, you're on the tee next.