Who’s Wearing Criquet: Pro Golfer Chris Doak

Criquet is proud to sponsor European Tour Pro, Scotsman Chris Doak, as he travels the world crushing balls and dropping 30-footers.

Doaky is the perfect match for Criquet, not only for his old school style and appreciation for the game, but because, like us, he understands the value of knocking back a cold one after the round.

The man himself looking good in a Hibiscus Players Shirt.

When did you pick up your first club?  I was 4 years old but I didn’t start playing until I was nine due to a problem with my hips.

Was the game inherited?  Yes my father’s uncle taught him and then my dad taught me the game.

Home course?  Don’t have one at the moment.

Tell us about the signature hat?  I always loved the style from the old gangster movies (and on Ben Hogan) and I wanted to be different from everyone else wearing a baseball hat. Enter in the fact that my head is literally massive and baseball hats don’t fit correctly.

Doak’s signature hat makes an appearance during every match.

The inspiration?  Well I always wanted to wear the hat as my golfing hero was Ben Hogan, but I thought people would *take the piss. (*Translation: tease me.)

Hogan badass-ing. A righteous style-inspirer.

My wife and I were at an AC/DC concert in Glasgow and obviously the lead singer wears a similar hat and all that went through my head was a montage of the song “Back in Black” with me wearing the cap and shooting 59.

How did you find out about us?  I found you through a internet search for 100% cotton hard-collared polos.

What about Criquet appealed to you?  The Organic cotton really attracted me to Criquet as I only wear 100% cotton shirts, and when I saw you guys’ shirts were hard-collared and organic it was perfect. The look of the shirts is old school but ageless, which is why I contacted you.

Favorite 19th Hole?  Clubhouse Turnhouse golf club, Edinburgh.

…and off course?  The Crown Hotel in Killarny, Ireland. I had my first Guinness there and the local music was playing… Great place!

Doak, Guinness and Criquet go together like PBJ. And bread.

Favorite beer/spirit at said 19th Hole?  Oh got a few but I’d really have to say Guinness, then a Corona with no lime *because fruit shouldn’t be associated with beer EVER. (*Criquet does not necessarily endorse this opinion, but we respect it.)

Favorite Course?  I love the Carnegie Club at Skibo Castle in Dornoch, Scotland.

Why did you let Lefty win the Scottish Open?  Well, he travelled longer than I did and his private jet only had enough fuel to get to Muirfield… So naturally I thought I’d be a good host and gift him some fuel money.

We call this pose “Eagle to Base”.

Favorite Moment from 2013 US Open at Merion?  Hitting a 5 iron to 3 foot on the 18th right next to Ben Hogan’s marker.

Funniest/favorite playing partners?  Michael Lorenzo-Vera because he is a crazy Frenchman.

When are you coming to visit Austin?  Only if you get me on Shady Oaks. The Invitational 2015? I’m sure if it fits in with my schedule!

Best look?  Got to go with Ty Webb.

Ty Webb, ’80, Bushwood Club Championship (Lacy Underall not included).

Cheers to Chris as he makes his run for back-to-back US Open appearances, while quietly conquering 19th Holes everywhere… Go Low, Doaky!

An Open Letter to Jason Dufner

Dear Sir Dufner,


Er…how is it wherever you are right now? Presumably you are either at or near a golf course, in which case we’d agree that things are very well for you indeed. Especially if you’re hitting strong and straight off the tee (no greater feeling, really.) However, there is a remote chance you are reading this in the john, in an airport, or in a john at an airport. Not the most ideal of circumstances, but – much like a 5-foot putt that just baaaarely lips the hole on what would’ve been a crowning birdie – sometimes that’s the way life goes.

Ahem. Anyway.

Apologies, we’re fairly excited to be speaking with you. For a while we’ve admired your game on the tour – the ease of your swing, the ease of your posture, and the ease of which your hat hair blows in the breeze.



#moredufnering #whatdoesthefoxsay 

You are a man of class, taste and a Major champion. A man who knows how to win 18 holes and then conquer the 19th. A man who celebrates winning the PGA by seeing how many beers can be put inside the trophy. To put it rather bluntly, Mr. Dufner, we like the cut of your jib. And a jib as nicely-cut as yours deserves a fine cut of cloth to go with it.

In short, you, sir, are a Criquet man.

Lose that last “F” and this is f’ing perfect.

As the 16th greatest golfer in all the land, we know that your top priority is winning tournaments and kicking proverbial ass. That’s great, that’s your thing. Wearing super-awesome, vintage-inspired Criquet golf shirts made from organic cotton is probably a bit lower on your list. We’d just like to move it up a few notches.

The look of a man who slays 18 holes and rules the 19th.

You don’t even have to be the official sponsored golfer of Criquet Shirts, per se. It could just be something you put on in the morning when you go out to win huge golf tournaments. Or something you put on right after winning. You see, as we are the official sponsors of the 19th hole, it would only make sense that you were clad in something that says “I’m ready to properly toast my victory.” We think Criquet would look as natural on you as the Wanamaker trophy looks in your hands, and as good on you as your wife looks in your arms.

Age-old question: How many beers fit inside the Wanamaker? DUFNER: 43

Speaking of, we would be remiss in neglecting to mention the ease of which Mrs. Dufner hits America’s eyes – that is to say, she is rather smoking. Like, Mickelson’s wife smoking. We mention this, of course, out of reverence for the good Lord’s handiwork and for the fact that you have chosen her to likewise bear the Dufner name. That, and you grabbed her posterior on national television after winning the Open. To this we respectfully doff our cap and say “well done.”

Good game all around.

So. Where does this leave us?

Sir Duf (can we call you Duf?) we invite you to become the ambassador of the 19th hole. The official sponsor of winning tournaments and being an all-around bad ass. The badassamador, if you will. And, perhaps, the occasional wearer of 19th hole Criquet shirts.

On April 12th we’re going to host a Masters shindig in Austin. At the new Criquet Clubhouse on South 1st and Monroe. A tournament-watching/beer-drinking/BBQ-eating/scotch-quaffing/more-beer-drinking/llamas sort of thing. Everyone is invited.

Naturally, you’ll be playing in the Masters so we don’t expect to see you there. But let us posit this: go to the Shell Houston Open a couple weeks before, win it, then swing by for a celebratory whiskey in Austin. Do you like bourbon? We’re betting you like bourbon. And beer. And beer with a sidecar of bourbon.

It’s all coming together, Sir Duf. We’ll leave a glass out for you. And a few shirts. We think you’ll like ‘em.

Good luck. And be the ball,


EDITOR’S NOTE: With the recent sprung-ing of Spring, Noonan has felt the itch to get out on the course and “play a hole or 18 or 36 or 450.” He’ll be on hiatus for just a short while, hitting the links and the occasional bottle of scotch. If you see him, buy him a cold one and remind him that his editor is waiting for more material. 

Should You Drink a Beer Right Now?

South by South Eh.

Ah, pretension. Thy name is South By.

Even the fact that we’ve taken to referring to “South By Southwest” as “South By” and spelling it “SXSW” feels a bit too smug for it’s own good. Let’s not be surprised when hipster hordes decide to truncate its overabundance of syllables into a mere grunt: Suh-Buh.

It’s a yearly spectacle that many the world clamor to attend, and one that most Austinites avoid by renting out our homes to wealthy Europeans for outlandish fees. (Why else do you think we’re okay with Formula One being held here in November – we’re talking Sultan money here, people.)

Wristbands. Badges. It’s nearly impossible to see or experience anything without the proper credentials, a few letters of recommendation, a secret handshake and a special power crystal. “I’m sorry sir, you can’t walk on the sidewalk, or even glance in the direction of that building – that’s for uber titanium, gold-rimmed, diamond-encrusted badge members…to even get one of these you have to literally set a stack of $10,000 on fire in front of a 4-person panel who votes on whether your mustache is properly waxed.”

So yes, we’ve reached a point where it’s just too much. Too many people. Too many companies.  Too many buzzwords. Too many hashtags screaming for your attention like a desperate ex you broke up with a few months back: “Please! Retweet us! Share us with your friends! LOVE US! ARRRGH!!!”

Case in point, pop-up tents like this one urging us to come in and take a load off (yes, sorry, too easy).

Refresh and massage what, exactly?

This was Cottonelle’s press release for their South By Southwest presence :

“…bath tissue maker Cottonelle will be on hand helping attendees stay clean and fresh as they take in the latest in tech trends. Recognizing a need for a place where people can go to freshen up onsite, Cottonelle is offering a …one-stop shop where weary registrants can go to relax, recharge and freshen up during their day. The TP maker will also “upgrade” select bathrooms onsite at SXSW by stocking stalls with Cottonelle toilet paper and flushable cleansing cloths so visitors can experience the clean and freshness of Cottonelle firsthand.”

No surprise that a brand so well-versed in crap would be so adept at spewing it.

For the love of all that’s good and holy, Cottonelle. We know what you do. We know your purpose. We know where we use you. We don’t want to discuss you. We just need you to work and then go away with a resounding flush. #pleaseneveraskustotweetorinstagramanything.

Perhaps I should feel a bit guilty singling out poor Cottonelle. No doubt some senior marketing person, after months of research, marched into a January shareholder meeting, snapped his suspenders and proudly declared “I know! We’ll attend the South By the Southwest!” And Cottonelle was hardly alone in their Who-Invited-These-Guys?” status (Ahem, Subway.)

Then there’s the music portion. Where pretension reaches a fever pitch.

As a dear friend pointed out, we are on this planet to fill our bellies a few times a day and eventually make miniature versions of ourselves. Anything beyond that is our own damn collective fault. Surely, the gross apotheosis of our own materialism and hubris can be seen in a 64-foot Doritos machine. No one to blame but us. And Lady Gaga for performing on it.

Does the world really need a giant Doritos vending machine, or Lady Gaga? This is rhetorical, read on.


Friends, I can’t even muster any cynical afterburners to discuss how one gets into this Doritos sponsored Lady Gaga thing. Suffice to say, it involved tweeting about what  makes one a bold individual and — God, I can’t type the rest. This lady wore a meat suit a few years back, remember? Doritos are merely bags of triangle-shaped processed cheese powder, remember?

Dammit America, what are we doing?

I’ve barely mentioned all the “secret shows” that pop up around the city, mostly providing “oh you shoulda been there” bragging rights for those who just happened to be there accidentally.


So yes, maybe you didn’t do the hashtag thing that unlocks the app which gives you the map to “Metallica and Coolio performing the entire James Taylor catalog, in the 4th stall bathroom of the Target off Hwy 290, 1 a.m.” Life goes on.

Still. Would I scoff at the thrill of going for lunch and running headlong into an impromptu street corner jam featuring Les Claypool? Or Jack White suddenly playing in an alley only a couple blocks from where I work?

Hmmm. Oh Suh-Buh. It’s so hard to quit you.

See you here in 2015, world. In the meantime, be the ball.


The World According to Noonan

Every four years, the world comes together in a global show of unity and goodwill, touting the universal ideals of sportsmanship, talent and hard work…before quickly devolving into a contest for who can get the most Shiny Round Gold Thingys.

I speak, of course, of the Winter Olympics.

Sochi will break you.

(I do realize that the use of Drago and boxing makes little sense in a Winter Olympic context, but this is overruled by my general philosophy that one can never go wrong with a Rocky reference.)

Despite the polite rhetoric, the Olympics are just a nice way for first world countries to have a war now and then without the nasty little side effects that come with a war, such as casualties. It’s a way to see who’s staying in shape and working out, and who’s letting themselves go watching “Duck Dynasty” on the couch. In other words, every time America fails to medal, it means Putin is a little more assured that all he needs to conquer the country are some missiles and reruns of “Charles in Charge.”

“I ride atop big horse of victory, yes?”

And every time we win gold, it makes Russia a little more likely to shake their heads and say, “well, clearly they’re still the best. Let’s postpone the invasion.”

“Oh…I guess the Russians are turning around. We must’ve beaten them in Ice Dancing.”

In this Winter World War of Who’s Got the Biggest Biceps, smaller countries like Slovenia and Botswana don’t stand a chance. And let’s not forget Luxembourg. Actually, wait, let’s. Is Luxembourg even a real country? When was the last time you heard about Luxembourg in the news? Have they ever showed up for an Olympic event? Have you ever met anyone from Luxembourg?

Luxembourg… not buying it.

But I digress.

And just how are these Battles of Who’s Got the Grandest Cojones in All the Tundra decided? Well, it’s important that we don’t ignore the battle terms of the Winter Olympics which, quite simply, are “Let’s See Who Can Get Down The Giant Mountain the Fastest and, In Some Cases, With a Backflip.”

You have the events where people jump into a human-sized bullet sled and shoot off in a tube down the mountain. Events where people zoom down a mountain with skis or boards, some over bumps, others past flags, and others still having to execute a series of jackknifes and twists.

And then there’s this:

The 2014 Evel Knievel Event.

How does one even practice whatever the hell that is? You get maybe one shot at it.  And if you don’t make the 100-foot jump on Saturday, then don’t bother to show up on Sunday — because you’re dead. (In which case, that’s probably a valid excuse for missing practice, assuming you have a note from your doctor.)

There’s also speed skating, where people with thighs as big as toddlers race around in an oval for a short while, proving…something. There’s curling, understood by only 3 of America’s 50 states. And I’m not quite sure where this fits into the greater pantheon of World Dominance.

The “Most likely to Get Beat Up in Middle School” Event.

“Give those dancers some giant sticks, an object that they slap into a net at 200mph, and the ability to slam into each other…and we have ourselves a goshdarn game.”

Let us not ignore the true badass event that involves cross-country snow skiing and shooting a rifle at a target. A test of skill, strength and endurance, and a show of which country has the best special forces agents to really mess some shiz up in another country.

The 2014 Winter Olympic Biathlon.

(America, keep an eye on Norway, they did waaaaay too well in the Biathlon.)

In the end, there are winners and there are losers, those who won gold and those who didn’t make the podium. But despite our differences, the world can agree that all we’ll collectively remember from this 2014 show was Bob Costas’s pink eye, wolves in the Sochi hotels, the USA team uniforms that looked like something my grandmother sewed after a few apple brandys, and the fact that John Candy was once in a movie about a Jamaican bobsled team.

Or maybe that last one’s just yours truly. Anyway, farewell Winter Games. Now, is it spring yet? I, for one, am ready for some golf.

Be the ball,


RIP Harold Ramis

Farewell to the original Griswold, a fellow Delta Tau Chi member, Caddyshacker, Meatballer, Striper, Ghostbuster, Groundhog wrangler, and honorary Criqueteer. The world is a less funny place without you.


Animal House:



National Lampoon’s Vacation:

Groundhog Day:

Be the ball,


An Olympic Rant (Noonan’s Day Off)

EDITOR’S NOTE: Our beloved Noonan couldn’t be here today. No, friends, he’s not silencing the clanging “Hammers of Hangover” inside his feeble skull with a few sips of a well-stirred Bloody. He did dash along a short note saying his recent marathon forays into both True Detective and the second season of House of Cards have left him “in awe, depleted, and without comment on the glorious depravity of humanity.” This, coupled with the fact that Norway has won more gold medals in this Winter Olympics than America, was no doubt more than he could mentally bear (though I do suspect the same could be said for the third Rittenhouse Manhattan he quaffed a few nights back – but I digress.) In fact, he did send this:

U.S. gold in Ice Dancing. Slightly better than being on the losing Russian Ice Hockey team, which will no doubt be personally executed by Putin. SLIGHTLY.

 (EDITOR’S SECOND NOTE: We at Criquet do not necessarily endorse the views and opinions sarcastically expressed by Noonan, as Ice Dancing is a fine sport in and of itself, and one that is perfectly suitable for any of its participants to wear, sponsor, or endorse Criquet apparel. This is especially true if said Ice Dancer also plays golf on the side, or engages in other noble activities such as more golf.)

 At any rate, we do wish Noonan well and Godspeed in his return to the e-written word. Send him good vibes if you can, and perhaps a good whisky if you’re willing. 

Oh yes, he would also wish that I sign-off in the proper manner.

Be the ball. 

 – The Editor

Noonan’s V-Word Monologues

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of Noonan and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Criquet Shirts. (Kind of).

Ah yes, Valentine’s Day. The time of the season when love hangs thick in the air like sweet perfume — ‘tis a scent quickly overpowered by guilt, marketing, and that beautifully beguiling scent of money. V-Day: a 24-hour period that’s as arbitrary and manufactured as Arbor Day, a grown man’s birthday, and anything your significant other deems as the anniversary of the first time you kissed/hugged/held hands/lifted the restraining order/etc. In short, it is a time of manufactured schmaltz. Make that “SCHMALTZ®.”

This day isn’t Kutcher’s fault. But we should blame him that Two and a Half Men is STILL on. Jennifer, you, of course, are okay.

Alas, my dear friends, I have little to offer you on this Friday other than caution and cynicism (and, perhaps, a nice glass of scotch – although I’m afraid the laws of physics prevent me from doing anything other than insisting you procure a bottle of Glenlivet Nadurra and show yourself how much you love yourself.)

Look. Whether or not you’ve been metaphorically speared by the proverbial heart-tipped arrow from a cherub named Cupid, this is a day that exists only to sell more flowers, chocolates, and movies so banal they make the inventor of film weep with bitterness in the afterlife. But Noonan, I hear you grumble as you exchange a crisp Andy Jackson for a dozen dyed-red roses, I know this… yet I’m caught beneath the wheels of the V-word marketing machine! I understand, it’s a Valentine’s Day Massacre in its own right.

“Send ‘em flowers, and a Hallmark card with a bear on front. God help you if you forget the @#$%ing Hallmark card with a bear on front!”

The best I can offer is that you mitigate the damage this day can do on your psyche and your wallet. Keep it simple, powerful and meaningful, as the bigger the gift, the emptier the gesture. Oh yes, nothing says “I love you to the ends of the earth” better than a cluster of flimsy red plastic balloons, reminding anyone who sees them that the earth’s natural resources are precious and limited, and that a small amount of them were just wasted in the production of this useless, tactless, cheap-ass proclamation of SCHMALTZ®.*

*sarcasm, in case you couldn’t tell.

Don’t be the person who does this.

Or, for that matter, this.

Look, comrades. Remember your anniversary and celebrate like royalty. Remember the moments that make your relationship unique and special, and honor them well. Surprise your missus or mister with an anti-Valentine’s Day, and resolve to drink bottles of expensive Cabernet at home in defiance of some rose-petal’d entrance to the special 2-course V-Day deal down at the TGIFridays. Do anything but the surface-level spectacle that the media and the marketers whisper in your ear.

And if you should find yourself alone on this day, consider yourself safe for another year. Celebrate with the aforementioned Nadurra – an object truly worthy of anyone’s affection. 

To the rest of you, stay strong and be the ball,


Monday Morning Quarterback (On A Friday Afternoon)

Football season has ended. And with it, the perfect excuse to crack open a beer in a parking lot at 10am while the sizzle of bratwurst serenades you from atop a fiery Weber. Of course, you could still do all these wondrous things without football – but then people tend to look at you strange.

Now that’s a tailgate.

If you frequented the net-webs at all during the month of January, you no doubt noticed the frenzy leading up to the advertising during the game was greater than that of the game itself. Facebook and its social media ilk were a-buzz with promises of titillation and glee all the way up to the moment of kick-off, and well into the post-game:

“Get ready to laugh in about 3 weeks! The laughs are getting closer! Take a sneak peak at something you may laugh at! You will laugh tomorrow! Here come the laughs now! Did you laugh? See who laughed the most as what! The laughing-est winner was declared to be the ad where the guy gets hit in the crotch!”

Yes, we could talk about the handful of SuperBowl commercials that surprised, entertained and (ever so slightly) delighted. RadioShack struck a simple, honest chord with its call from the ‘80s and the subsequent trashing of its old store by icons from decades past (who doesn’t like to see Alf peel out in a Delorean?) Coca Cola ditched the polar bears and did a nice (if not controversial) multilingual rendition of “America the Beautiful.” Newcastle Ale, which never appeared during the big game itself, talked about what it would have done if it had the money to advertise during the super bowl.

But enough of the positives. You did not come here for me to praise Caesar, but to bury him. As such, let’s take down some ads like the Seahawks defense took down Manning.

The Top 3 Worst Ads Of The Super Bowl:

1. Every Doritos ad

America, we can do better.

I don’t have the courage or the patience to go through these again. Although advertisers have done little to establish their Super Bowl marketing prowess these past few years, they’re still better than time-machine jokes and little cowgirls riding on the backs of mastiffs. If that doesn’t make sense to you, good. I’ve spared you the eye-rolls and yawns of user-generated content spawned from the promise of a $1 million payout. At least there were no “hit in the crotch” gags. Still, $1 million for a 30 second ad on processed cheese chips … what are we doing as a country?

2. Dylan and Chrysler

Bringing it all back home. Kind of. Not really.

Oh how the times they have a-changed. There should be a lot to like about this. Lovely vignettes of the countryside interspersed with vintage footage of musicians and movie stars – very nice. Bob Dylan music – all good there. Bob Dylan, the godfather of true cool himself – hell yes. Bob Dylan shilling for Chrysler – uh, what the hell. His first line is reason for alarm: “Is there anything more American than America?” The man who wrote “how does it feel/to be on your own/like a rolling stone” would never utter anything so pedantic. He would speak of poetry and tradition, of trains, scoundrels, and women, of redemption, God, love, sex and death. Is it worth mentioning that Dylan is from Minnesota, not Michigan? Is it worth mentioning that Chrysler is owned by Fiat, an Italian company? Is it worth mentioning again how this ad is only slightly better than most of what Bob put out in the ‘80s?

3. The Budweiser Puppy Spot

I don’t have the words. But I do have the sounds: blllleeeeeaaaarrrrgggggghhhhhhh.

Not the cute puppy and horse and beer ad? But Noonan, I hear you protest, have you no decency, have you no heart? – this was rated the best by a bunch of the best people who get paid to say whether things are the best or not. Rubbish. This ad isn’t just spoon-feeding you sentimentality, it’s firehosing every ounce of its sugary-sweet sappiness straight down the gaping maw of America, playing off our penchant for raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens and PG movies where everything turns out all right in the end. A puppy, a Clydesdale, and a love connection – it’s $10 million and a half-drunk studio executive away from being green-lit and developed into a summer Rom-Com blockbuster. This sixty-second saga of saccharin gets the thumbs down simply for knowing how to yank on America’s heartstrings, and then doing so with iron fists.

And there you have it.

Feel free to disagree. At the moment I am but one man, with a glass of RedBreast 12 in my hand and a few thoughts in my head. Draw your own conclusions, or better yet, don’t bother to sketch them up at all. This is, after all, only advertising.

Until next season, I’ll be tailgating with some brats in the driveway. You bring the beer.

Be the ball,


A Note of Encouragement in These Dark Days

Friends and Criqueteers,

January is a lousy month. Whoever invented it clearly held a grudge against the outdoors, humanity in general, and the ethereal feeling of striking a small white ball and seeing it drop into a tiny hole in the ground hundreds of yards away.

January. Probably invented by a guy who’d rather sit inside draped in a towel, and do homework.

Yes, it has been too long since we’ve held a cold steel (5-iron) blade in our hands and used said blade to rip one down the guts of the fairway. Too long since we have played from the tips and wondered in awe at the mostly unknowable series of muscle movements that, from backswing to follow-through, somehow sent the Titleist on a rope to the pin. Too long since we saved double bogey by sinking that 23-footer with the weird break toward the water. Yes, double bogey – even the best of us have shanked one into the woods, duffed the bunker shot, and yet redeemed the scorecard with a putt that was as pure and perfect as a silver fork tinging against lead crystal. Or a vinyl copy of Neil Young’s On the Beach.

Somewhere on the scale between “good beer” and “sex” is “draining a 23-footer.”

So, as the January weather whipsaws us between “polar vortex”, “arctic blast” and “my family jewels just receded into my stomach” we must remind ourselves that warmer days lie just ahead. And with them the promise that the greens will be groomed, the drink carts will be stocked, and the fairways will be green (or, at least in Texas, not too brown.)

Sidenote: How do people north of the Mason Dixon do it? Do they not despair when they look out the window in this godforsaken month and realize it’s maybe the halfway point? Do they not see the mountains of white evil piled atop the Earth and shudder at nature’s cruel attempt to keep them from a good 18? (In their defense, they do seem more prepared to handle a bunch of snowflakes named “Leon” better than the rest of us.)

Dear TX, GA, and others: when the zombie apocalypse hits, we’re not going to do so well.

Fear not. For all you who look upon the cold, gray outdoors and despair, spring is around the corner. And with it comes newness of life and the hope that our handicaps might lose a point or two.

Sip some scotch, clean your clubs, and hold fast, my brothers. January has almost reached its bitter end, and you can thank the golf saints above that February only has 28 days. Besides, if there’s one truth to both one’s golf game and the weather, it’s that neither is consistent.

Be the ball,