Latrobe

When he took showers with the other pros, they came
out of there, they said, “Oh my God,
that’s unbelievable.” Each lantern-jawed
scratch handicapper felt the fucking same:
a rod-spared child rod-spoiling for a game
and gamine tumble through the tiled defilade,
flesh, ceramic, spurting firing squad,
relief released and thus released from shame.
This guy, this guy, this is a guy that was
all man. This guy was strong. This guy was tough.
Half lemonade and half iced tea, he could
push even teetotal duffers to a buzz,
and each plaid-panted putterer to stuff
his irons in their covers, drive with wood.