It is these quiet moments in early January
That define him: Away from the stadium
Lights and the roar of the crowd,
Steering the cart with one hand
While sipping appletini from a flask –
Not enough to get drunk
But enough to blur the hash marks
In his memory. He navigates
The fourth fairway with the precision
Of a surgeon and the audacity
Of a poet who mixes metaphors.
Three feet from the hole on 8,
He declares a gimme for par.
But he keeps losing his balls
On the back nine. Completing his round
In 90 athletic strokes, he swaggers
To the clubhouse for Perrier and quiche.
Teammates and blonde sluts
Have invited him to their foursomes,
But he plays better when nobody
Is watching: a wintry chill
In the air, a dollop of gel in his hair,
And no witnesses when he drives
From the ladies’ tees.
Such is greatness.