I was going to sit down and write about my US Open Local qualifying round. I was going to write about how proud of myself I was. I was going to write how I missed nine consecutive greens and was only two over par at the turn. I was going to write about birdieing the last hole and saving some pride. I was going to write about how my best friend was right there with me; living and suffering with every bad shot. I was going to write about a game that I cannot master, only play. I’ve waited too many days, only three. I’ve wasted too many hours in between. I hit it awful and saved multiple muraculous pars that only a handful of people on the planet could have dealt with. But, I failed and that is the story. The round cannot be written with the end I created. I cannot paint a picture with words on a screen, it’s only text. If you want to hear the real story, meet me for a beer at our favorite pub. Oh wait, you’re only text, words on a screen. What’s this worth, this writing nobody reads…

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