A Quote by Steve Rushin

Golf balls are sweet: dimpled and sometimes even smiling. — © Steve Rushin
Golf balls are sweet: dimpled and sometimes even smiling.
My doctor asked me how many golf balls I had hit in my career. I'm lying there in bed calculating somewhere between four and five million golf balls I had hit to do that on my body.
As if we don't have enough volence on television. After her husband accidentally hit two spectators with golf balls during a celebrity golf tournament.
Golf cannot be played in anger, or in any mood of emotiional excess. Half the golf balls struck by amateurs are hit if not in rage surely in bewilderment, or gloom, or in cynicism, or even hysterically - all of those emotional excesses must be contained by the professional. Which is why balance is one of the essential ingredients of golf. Professionals invariably trudge phlegmatically around the course - whatever emotions are seething within - with the grim yet placid and bored look of cowpokes, slack-bodied in their saddles, who have been tending the same herd for two months.
What kind of woman irons her husband's sheets? Even the clothes I wear, I just throw 'em in the dryer with some golf balls.
I can sit here and hit all the balls and chip and putt all day long, but if you're not playing competitive golf... there's nothing better than competitive golf.
A golf ball is white, dimpled like a bishop's knees, and is the size of small mandarin oranges or those huge pills which vets blow down the throats of constipated cart-horses.
Golf gives and takes. So yeah, sometimes you make those putts, sometimes you just miss them. But that's golf.
Sometimes I think children are the worst people alive. And even if they're not- even if some smiling toddler is as pure as Evian- it's only a matter of time.
When Tiger was 6 months old, he would sit in our garage, watching me hit balls into a net. He had been assimilating his golf swing. When he got out of the high chair, he had a golf swing.
I am not superwoman. The reality of my daily life is that I am juggling a lot of balls in the air? And sometimes some of the balls get dropped.
It's the same with spirit guises; show me a sweet little choirboy or a smiling mother and I'll show you the hideous fanged strigoi it really is. (Not always. Just sometimes. *Your* mother is absolutely fine, for instance. Probably.)
Yellow, mellow, ripened days, Sheltered in a golden coating; O'er the dreamy, listless haze, White and dainty cloudlets floating; Winking at the blushing trees, And the sombre, furrowed fallow; Smiling at the airy ease, Of the southward flying swallow Sweet and smiling are thy ways, Beauteous, golden Autumn days.
For all the fun, don't forget: I always knew when to put my golf balls down and practice.
Sometimes I'm so sweet even I can't stand it.
I'm not always smiling when I'm on the golf course. Sometimes, hey, listen, people have regular jobs. You go to them when they're working, and you catch them not in the best moment either. So I understand how people could perceive me. But come get to know me, and I'm totally a different person.
Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a brere; Sweet is the juniper, but sharp his bough; Sweet is the eglantine, but stiketh nere; Sweet is the firbloome, but its braunches rough; Sweet is the cypress, but its rynd is tough; Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill; Sweet is the broome-flowre, but yet sowre enough; And sweet is moly, but his root is ill.
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