Why I am like this.

Jaye saw it coming, A thousand years ago, soon after I moved into THE DEVONSHIRE HOUSE. I still expected to break 80 every time I teed it up and never did. My clubs suffered then as a result. I would throw them, whack them on the ground, and penalize THEM for shots I had hit. One time at Malibu (back when it was still PL) I ended up 2 and 12. Every club but my Armour 2 wood and Ironmaster putter (that I got straight from the hand of Chris Schock) was snapped in two over my left knee.
I worked it into a nice ritual: I would walk down the fairway to my drive and plan my second shot. If I didn't like the outcome, snap! One quick one over the knee and both pieces tossed in my Jones carry bag. By the time of the end of the round I almost couldn't carry the bag on account of it was so bottom heavy.

While untreated, my depression was like a wall a thousand feet tall. I didn't have the will to even consider trying to climb it. Yes, I know. Lazy. And I agree. And I hated myself for it and willed myself to change, and wrote lists and joined churches and fucked it all up with the greatest of intentions and what the hell do I do now that I am 52 and it is still going on and may be worse now? Suck it up, I say. TCB. Or like Alika used to say at quite high volume, "TAKE CARE OF YOUR SHIT, MAN!"
It is just that I have to try to explain it someway; the old shrug of the shoulders doesn't cut it with prospective employers. “What's with the last three years?” they want to know. Me, too. Add my wife to the list.

Jaye fixed them all. Pretty sure it was a set of Confidence IIs. Nice True Temper shafts (like there was anything else) and Green Victory grips. Until I couldn't pay him and then he took me on as apprentice. Allegedly I was a club repair technician in training, but I was really majoring in being a junior drug addict. I worked good for a while and then started moping around and he said, "Oh, no. Don't go getting blue on me!"  I took a walk and came back a couple of weeks later. Just remembering that moment kind of makes my blood run cold. How could I know what the hell was going on with me?  Shit. I still don't and it is thirty years later. If I had known, could I have done anything about it? I don't know. Maybe he does. I see where he is working at Sepulveda lately. Maybe I'll go out and see the old vulture.