Tee Shot Quotes

No one can take the shot for you.

Why is it when I’m the one shot, I’m a baby, but when it’s you, it’s a matter of life and death and national security? (Joe) Because I’m cuter in a short skirt. (Tee)

We don’t want civilians walking around who know about us. Got it? (Tee) Wow, you’re like a ferocious bunny, aren’t you? (Nathan) Worse. A bunny can be fluffy sometimes. Tee always goes for the throat. Trust me. I’m her partner and she’s shot me three times now. (Joe)

Clubs rattled behind them. Skeet Cooper rubbed the corner of his mouth with his thumb and rose from the bench. “Looks like Kenny’s caddy’s here.” Dallie lifted an eyebrow as his son stepped up on the tee carrying Kenny’s bag. Ted smiled. “Sorry I’m late. Mom made me eat breakfast. Then she started fussing with my hair, don’t ask me why.” Dallie took the driver Skeet handed him. “Funny you didn’t mention that you were going to caddy for Kenny today.” “Must have forgot.” Ted smiled and shifted the bag. “I told Skeet.” Dallie shot Skeet an annoyed look that didn’t bother Skeet one bit. Kenny gestured toward the tee. “Be my guest. I believe in showing respect for the elderly and the infirm.

Edward Abbey said you must "brew your own beer; kick in you Tee Vee; kill your own beef; build your cabin and piss off the front porch whenever you bloody well feel like it." I already had a good start. As a teenager in rural Maine, after we came to America, I had learned hunting, fishing, and trapping in the wilderness. My Maine mentors had long ago taught me to make home brew. I owned a rifle, and I'd already built a log cabin. The rest should be easy. I thought I'd give it a shot.

When we watch pro golfers, we expect them to play well, to make the shots we know we can’t, and to be entertaining. Their expectation, however, is very different. They expect to succeed!

If you dread ending up in the bunker, practice these tricky out-of-the-sand shots until you master them. Think of it as insurance—we all have learned that, once you know you can make that shot easily, you will seldom need to!

regrets, Palazzo,” Luca said wryly. “Now that you’re here, you know Shane won’t let you leave until everyone’s smashed.” Rafe grimaced. “True.” Luca raised his glass. “To your fortune, amico.” Knowing that his friend was not referring to his material possessions, Rafe raised his glass in return, murmuring quietly, “I wish you the same luck, amico.” After downing his third shot,

The ninth is an easy driving hole. Plenty of room. The kind that makes you want to come out of your shoes at the ball. I was feeling a little cocky so as I addressed the ball I looked over at some of the people and said: “I been hittin’ shots for you people all day. I think I’ll hit this one for myself.” I didn’t catch it anywhere but on the screws. The ball looked like it might stay in the air long enough to send back weather reports. The crowd around the tee exploded with a cheer, and above it I heard Grover Scomer. He yelled: “Waxahachie, Nacogdoches!

Morning, Vex. Forget something?” She almost asked him what until she saw the way his gaze smoldered and caressed her almost naked body. Oops. Had she jumped out of bed in only her panties? Nudity wasn’t something that Meena usually noted or cared about. Mother, on the other hand, was always yelling at her to put clothes on. She and Leo had a lot in common. “You should get dressed.” “Why? I’m perfectly comfortable.” So comfortable she brought her shoulders back and made sure to give her boobs a little jiggle. He noticed. He stared. Oh my. Was it getting hot in here? Funny how the heat in her body, though, didn’t stop her nipples from hardening as if struck by a cold breeze. Except, in this case, it was more of an ardent perusal. Did Leo imagine his mouth latched onto a sensitive peak just like she was? “While I am sure you are comfortable, if we’re to go out, then in order to avoid a possible arrest for indecent exposure, you might want to cover your assets.” “We’re going out? Together?” He nodded. “Where?” “It’s a surprise.” She clapped her hands and squealed, “Yay,” only to frown a second later. Leo was acting awfully strange. “Wait a second, this isn’t one of those things where you blindfold me and tell me you’ve got a great surprise, only to dump me on a twelve-hour train to Kansas, is it? Or a plane to Newfoundland, Canada?” His lips twitched. “No. I promise we have a destination, and I am going with you.” “And will I be back here tonight?” “Perhaps. Unless you choose to sleep elsewhere.” Those enigmatic words weren’t his last. “Be downstairs and ready in twenty minutes, Vex. I really want you to come.” Did he purr that last word? Was that even possible? Could he tease her any harder? Please. “How should I dress? Fancy, casual, slutty, or prim and proper?” She eyed him in his khaki shorts and collared short-sleeved shirt. Casual with a hint of elegance. He looked ready for a day at a gentleman’s golf club. And she wanted to be his corrupting caddy, who ruined his shot and dragged him in the woods to show him her version of a tee off. “Your clothes won’t matter. You won’t wear them for long.” Good thing she was close to a wall. Her knees weakened to the point that she almost buckled to the floor. Leaning against it, she wondered if he purposely teased her. Did her serious Pookie even realize how his words could be taken? He approached her until he stood right in front of her. Close enough she could have reached out and hugged him. She didn’t, but only because he drew her close. His essence surrounded her. His hands splayed over the flesh of her lower back, branding her. She leaned into him, totally relying on him to hold her up on wobbly legs. “What about breakfast?” she asked. “I’ve got pastries and coffee in my truck. Lots of yummy treats with lickable icing.” Staring at his mouth, she knew of only one treat she wanted to lick. Alas, she didn’t get a chance. With a slap on her ass, he walked off toward the condo door. Leo. Slapped. My. Ass. She gaped at his retreating broad back. “Don’t make me wait. I’d hate to start without you.” With a wink— yes, a real freaking wink— Leo shut the door behind him. He was waiting for her. Why the hell was she standing there? She sprinted for the shower.

I used to play golf,” said Serge. “It’s a frightening game. Forget football or even NASCAR.” He whistled in awe. “Golf takes it to the brink.” “That bad?” “It’s the mental component. They try to hush it up, but the game can destroy the strongest men. Every year, dozens of ugly psychotic breaks. Frustration builds over a lifetime until a tee shot lands in the water of a sadistic island hole, and then a hedge-fund manager hurls all his clubs like tomahawks at the other guys in plaid knickers before stripping off all his clothes and making ‘snow angels’ in a sand trap, prompting a special unit from the pro shop to hustle him away through secret underground doors. Fortunately, I have the perfect emotional composition to excel at golf.

Once, while playing in a tournament at the Monterey Peninsula Club, I hit a shot off the tee, a par five. It looked like a very good shot, but, unfortunately, the ball landed next to a waste area. When I went to hit my second shot, I missed the ball. Whiffed completely. Embarrassingly. The whiff counted as a shot, of course. My third shot was not much better, leaving me a good 200 yards from the green. I hit my fourth shot and finally made it onto the green. As I walked onto the green, I couldn't find my ball... had it rolled off? Had I sent it longer than I thought, into the sand on the far side? I looked and looked and looked. The ball was in the hole. I'd made a birdie four on a par five, after one of my shots was whiffed and another was almost as terrible. A surprise, I think, is really just an inevitability that we're too unsophisticated to predict.

As if to prove I was willing to give this new adventure as a visual storyteller my best shot, I'd searched for the most colorful piece of clothing I owned in my minimal, mostly monochromatic closet. The winner: a white vintage Polaroid tee with a band of pink, orange, yellow, and blue stretched across my chest. Nothing like living on the wild side.

Golf is boring, he thinks. It discourages him. The boy would rather eat cabbage ice cream. “We’ll throw in your brother’s clubs,” I told him, “but you don’t have to golf. You can drive the cart and laugh at my shots.” He seemed okay with that. After all, a trip with dad spells restaurants and hotels and waterslides to a boy his age. He can tolerate a game of golf for such rewards. Upon arriving, we were introduced to the other members of our foursome, Jim and Neil, two of the kindest guys I’ve ever met. When they discovered Jeffrey’s intentions, they were disappointed. “Golf with us,” pleaded Jim, bowing on one knee and extending a hand, “we need you.” “I’ll buy you a pop and hamburger for lunch,” promised Neil. Perhaps it was the hamburger that beckoned louder than the golf course, but soon Jeffrey found himself on the first tee, addressing the ball and surprising us all with a straight shot about 100 yards down the fairway. “Tiger!” said Jim. “You swing just like Tiger Woods!” Jeffrey was grinning. The tournament was a best ball format. From the first tee, my ball sailed 200 yards but found a bunker. Jim and Neil were less fortunate. So guess whose ball we used? You’re right. It was “Tiger’s.

GOLF (Men’s Journal, 1992) The smooth, long, liquid sweep of a three wood smacking into the equator of a dimpled Titleist … It makes a potent but slightly foolish noise like the fart of a small, powerful nature god. The ball sails away in a beautiful hip or breast of a curve. And I am filled with joy. At least that’s what I’m filled with when I manage to connect. Most of my strokes whiz by the tee the way a drunk passes a truck on a curve or dig into the turf in a manner that is more gardening than golf. But now and then I nail one, and each time I do it’s an epiphany. This is how the Australopithecus felt, one or two million years ago, when he first hit something with a stick. Puny hominoid muscles were amplified by the principles of mechanics so that a little monkey swat suddenly became a great manly engine of destruction able to bring enormous force to bear upon enemy predators, hunting prey, and the long fairway shots necessary to get on the green over the early Pleistocene’s tar pit hazards. Hitting things with a stick is the cornerstone of civilization. Consider all the things that can be improved by hitting them with a stick: veal, the TV, Woody Allen. Having a dozen good sticks at hand, all of them well balanced and expertly made, is one reason I took up golf. I also wanted to show my support for the vice president. I now know for certain that Quayle is smarter than his critics. He’s smart enough to prefer golf to spelling. How many times has a friend called you on a Sunday morning and said, “It’s a beautiful day. Let’s go spell potato”? I waited until I was almost forty-five to hit my first golf ball. When I was younger I thought golf was a pointless sport. Of course all sports are pointless unless you’re a professional athlete or a professional athlete’s agent, but complex rules and noisy competition mask the essential inanity of most athletics. Golf is so casual. You just go to the course, miss things, tramp around in the briars, use pungent language, and throw two thousand dollars’ worth of equipment in a pond. Unlike skydiving or rugby, golf gives you leisure to realize it’s pointless. There comes a time in life, however, when all the things that do have a point—career, marriage, exercising to stay fit—start turning, frankly, golflike. And that’s when you’re ready for

Where are you going? she demanded. 'There are two dozen soldiers there!' 'Autumn Court soldiers,' Cassian clarified, wings pumping so hard the wind ripped at her eyes. 'I don't know what the fuck they're doing here, or if Eris has royally fucked us over, but one of them shot an ash arrow through Az's wing.' 'Then why are we flying away?' 'Because I'm not landing with you in the middle of that.' 'Put me down!' she shouted. 'Put me down wherever and go back to him!' He didn't, surveying the bog below for the right place. She slammed a hand on his muscled chest. 'Cassian!' 'I know what each second costs me, Nesta,' he said quietly. 'Put me down in a fucking tree, then!' She pointed to one that they narrowly avoided. He spotted an area he deemed safe enough: a solid stretch of grassy land, the remnants of a tee rising from its midst. He set her in the tree, as she'd suggested, perching her on the highest, sturdiest branch. It groaned and swayed beneath their weight. 'Stay here,' he commanded, waiting until she'd wrapped her hands around the branch and was clinging like a child who'd climbed too high. 'I'll be back soon. Do not climb down. No matter what you may see or hear.' 'Go.' She was utterly useless in a fight, she knew. She would only distract him. 'Be careful,' he warned, as if he weren't the one about to head into danger, and then he was gone.

Pegtop tees for golf were introduced by Samuel in ‘33 for this use. The technique is to tee the ball, frame up for the shot, and then at the last moment stop, pretend to push the peg a little further in or pull it a little further out, and then start all over again. At the next hole vary this with Samuel’s ‘Golden Perfecto’ peg tee, made in such a way that the ball, after sitting still in the cup for two to three seconds, rolls off. (Fig. 4.) Through the green, the usual procedure is to frame up for the shot and then decide on another club at the last moment.

-Play to your basic shot shape and don’t try to “fix” your swing during a round -Off the tee, play to the open side of the fairway and away from hazards -Consider hitting a 3-wood or hybrid or even an iron off the tee if hazards lurk in your driver landing area -Play to the fat part of the green and away from hazards -Play your approach shots away from a tucked pin in order to avoid “short-siding” yourself -Try to keep the ball below the hole in order to leave easier chips and putts -If you get into trouble, your first priority is to get out of trouble, even if it means pitching back into the fairway or bailing out to the middle of the green -Always think ahead while on the tee of the ideal angle you would like to approach your next shot from, and plan your shot accordingly while considering the hazards that lurk nearby The above are just a few of the general strategy rules you can follow on any course in order to maximize your likelihood of shooting a good score. Conservative

their mother.” All over England, other citadels of the British class system were falling to the Poles. One 303 Squadron pilot, shot down during the Battle of Britain, parachuted onto an exclusive golf course, landing near the eighth tee. The men playing the hole insisted on carting the dazed flier off to the clubhouse for drinks. Another parachuting pilot drifted into a copse near a private tennis club in the London suburbs. Three club members observed his descent as they awaited the arrival of a fourth for their weekly doubles match. They helped extricate the Pole from the trees and, giving up on their expected fourth, asked if he played. When the young pilot said he did, he was dressed in borrowed white flannels and was soon on the court, borrowed racket in hand.

But, Father Murray didn’t want to say Mass, he wanted to play a round of golf. Father Murray told his associate pastor that he wasn’t feeling well, and asked him if he would say Mass for him at nine o’clock. The younger priest agreed, and suggested that Father Murray go back to bed. Father Murray loaded his clubs into the trunk, drove to a distant golf course, where he hoped not to be seen, and started his golf game. Up in Heaven, Saint Peter was appalled. He said, ‘Lord, are you going to let him get away with this?’ and the Lord replied, ‘Patience, Peter.’ Meanwhile, Father Murray was playing the game of his life. He was driving the ball three hundred and fifty yards, and making forty foot putts. Again, Saint Peter asked the Lord, ‘Lord, surely you don’t intend to reward Father Murray’s behavior?’ Again, the Lord told Peter to be patient. Finally, Father Murray reached the last hole. He lined up the tee shot, and hit a sizzling shot which headed right for the cup. It dropped, rolled, and fell in for a hole-in-one. Father Murray was overjoyed. Saint Peter was baffled. ‘Lord, why would you allow Father Murray to skip Mass, tell a lie, and then play the best golf game of his life?’ The Lord answered, ‘Who’s he gonna tell?

Second, golfers often have a problem of perception. If a player, facing a tee shot, starts to remember shots she’s hit out of bounds, is she being realistic? Or is she being unduly harsh on herself? If she thought about it, she’d probably remember that she’s hit far more tee shots in bounds than out of bounds during the course of her golfing career. Remembering one of the good shots, therefore, would be far more realistic than remembering a shot that sliced out of bounds. But golfers, particularly high-handicappers, often perceive themselves too negatively. They allow the bad shots to dominate their memories.