Funny how golf is.

Just last week I admitted to the world (well, cyberspace, anyway) that I whiffed on a shot.

Today, a brand new grip I've been experimenting with delivered the best round of my life. A 77 at Tyrone Hills Golf Course, a 6,404-yard course in Fenton, MI, with a moderate slope of 125, is nothing to jump up and down about. I'm more thrilled that I shot a one-under-par 35 on the front nine, my final nine of the day. I've never seen red numbers before, only sniffed it a handful of times. Can't even get there on Wii golf.

It only took me 17 years in the game and more than 550 rounds (my best guess).

I knew I was on a roll, but a birdie-birdie finish was a major breakthrough. In past attempts at career rounds, I'd start adding numbers in my head down the home stretch. In other words, golf's kiss of death.

I knew I had a shot at glory and I'm still stunned I didn't choke, gag and blow it. After a 15-foot birdie putt on the second-to-last hole, I drove to the last tee fearing a tight tee shot through a chute of trees and wetlands. My drive skirted some limbs and found the right half of the fairway. One of the purest 7-woods of my life, a 180-yard bomb, finished four feet from the cup on an elevated, severly sloping green.

Thank goodness I didn't have to worry about the putt, as it was a near-gimmee. At this rate, I wonder what I'll do next week. An ace would be nice.

Who am I kidding? I'll be happy to break 90.

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