“I have a tip that can take five strokes off anyone's golf game: it's called an eraser.”

- Arnold Palmer

I have found myself realizing that there are basically two types of people in this world: those that make lists and those that don't.

I am one of those that doesn't, and I'll tell you why.

I'm not that organized to begin with.

I can never find paper or a pen when I need it.

I don't have the coordination to read and push a shopping cart at the same time.

I figure that if something is really important, I'll just remember it anyway.

While I'm on the topic of segregating people, I have found that there is another way of dividing up the masses. Those that can quietly play a simple game of mini- golf and then there are the few people that feel the need to talk smack throughout the game. Now, while I'd love to say that I'm the former, my lack of ability leads me to be the latter. And this was how my week went.

It was beautiful on Tuesday night when Honey decided that we should get outside and enjoy the nice weather with a round of putt-putt. To make things interesting the loser would have to buy ice cream. So, off we went to Arnold Palmers. With clubs in hand we walked to the first hole where she promptly scored a hole in one. “Beginners luck,” I said after trying to swing not once, not twice, but five times! This being the first game of the year I chalked it up to being rusty. It was only after hole six that I realized that I could have taken a bath in WD-40 and it wouldn't have improved my game as the score was somewhere in the upper teens for her. But for me, well, all I can say is 42 has always been my lucky number. Also realize that up to this point while I kept applying a healthy dose of trash talk every time she tried to line up a shot; Honey had been gracious enough to not gloat about the fact that I was essentially having my butt handed to me.

That was until it was time for the “windmill.”

Beads of sweat dripped from my forehead as I watched those blades spin and with baited breathe I swung. The ball rolled and fell into the cup like it was going home and when I heard that little “plunk” I began what would turn into a ten minute rant of “in-your-face.”

It didn't matter that she scored a two on that one or that I would never again achieve a single digit putt, for I was, at that moment, in rapture. It can be noted that I was so proud of my single achievement that I even mentioned it while pulling out the cash for the ice cream though I learned something about myself that night. Some people can walk the walk, others just talk the talk, and me, well I just putter till I make it.

Bradley Molloy's column appears here each Sunday in The citizen. He can be reached at lovonian@hotmail.com