A few days ago, almost nobody read my latest column. I love it, but I understand. The subject matter is, well, less than compelling: Golf. Boring, I know; but in spite of that, I and many of the commenters seem to really like it. I’m proud of it. Give it a read here:
Now, I’m not writing this (only) to beg you to read a column I’m proud of. I’m writing this to give a small update on my golf game.
Just a few hours ago, my friends and I took our first golf lesson from an instructor. I did quite well. It was a great learning experience. Our lesson was conducted on the driving range of a local fancy golf course my friends and I will never be able to afford to play on. (We usually play of a dirt cheap public course that’s mostly made up of dirt with patches of grass sprinkled throughout).
I was shooting well, until my final shot of the day. I swung, and the club slipped out of my grasp. It flew above my friend’s head, smashed into a fluorescent light bulb over his head. Shards of broken glass and plastic rained down on my friend like snow made of tiny knives.
Here’s the damage:
Every person lined up on the range stopped and stared at my wonderful disaster. From that moment on, my friends dubbed me “Luis, The Light Breaker,” which I think is far too badass a title than I can ever live up too again, unless I somehow manage to explode the sun.
So, yeah. What I’m trying to say is, you guys should all start calling me Light Breaker now.