A man goes to confession, sits down and tells the priest, “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”
“What was your sin, my son?” the priest asked.
“Obscene language,” the man replied.
“That’s a terrible sin,” the priest replied. “Do you swear often?”
“No,” answered the man, “but do you know the local golf course?”
“Indeed I do,” said the priest
“I play there often. When I was on the tee at the fourth hole, the long par three, I hit one of the best drives of my life. It must have gone 220 yards on the fly, straight down the middle, took one bounce, and then hit a sprinkler head and bounced off into the bush.”
“I’m not surprised that you swore,” said the priest, “If that had happened to me…”
“No, I didn’t swear then. The shot I had hit was a great one and the bounce was just the luck of the game. When I checked the position of my ball, I realized that I still had a chance of making par. The ball was on a hardpan lie, and there was a small gap through the trees for me to have a shot at the green. I really should have taken the safe option and just played out sideways to the fairway, but I had hit such a great drive that my confidence was high.”
The man continued, “I was still about 200 yards from the green, so I took a five wood from the bag, positioned the ball back in my stance to keep it low and hopefully get under the trees, told myself to forget about all the hazards and just imagine the ball on the green, and played the shot. Even using the wood, I nipped the ball perfectly off the hard lie, the ball kept low as I planned, and flew straight as a die toward the green, took one bounce onto the green, hit the flagstick and bounced off sideways into that deep pot bunker to the right of the green.”
“My son, my son,” said the priest, “I’m ready to forgive you already. That would have made a saint swear.”
“No father,” said the man, “I didn’t swear then. I realized that I had just played two perfect shots and only bad luck had stopped me from getting the result I deserved. When I saw my ball, I thought that all my hopes of making par had disappeared. It was lying right against the face of a five-foot deep bunker with very little green to work with, and I really should have gone out sideways, but after the two good shots, I was feeling confident. I took my sand iron out, opened the clubface fully, aimed the ball about six feet left of the pin and played the shot. The ball popped almost straight up in the air, landed on the green, and the spin on the ball dragged it back to four inches from the pin.”
“F#?!ing hell!” said the priest, “don’t tell me you missed a four-inch putt?”