An Nuhūd Late last season, a regular golf buddy of mine explained why he hadn’t shown up the previous Sunday: “I was stuck behind the Invisible Fence.” His wife doesn’t make him wear a shock collar, but almost. When she sees him tiptoeing toward the door and smells sunscreen, she gives him a zap.
Another friend had to beg off one weekend because his family was holding a reunion. “I’ve got an idea,” I said. “We’ll call Sunday’s round a tournament, and we’ll dedicate it to the memory of your father [who had been an avid player]. That way you’ll have to play.” We ended up not, but only because he didn’t think it would work.