關於愛，我是個小學生。

Since 9:48, on December 22nd, sunny, windy in Lin Kuo Formosa GC, a special venue for me as well as the other three stalwart laymen to know our golf comprehension as a regular seminar during the past three months, there goes an unforgettable story:

For Victor, one of the rookies, a will-be oversea daigakusei in Tokyo, the play served as a farewell party on the golf course. And I really hoped the tee-off this time would never be his last when he did find what playing golf after practicing only a couple of months should be like. Pat, who has just got his brand new shining AP2, was in his dandy apparels as usual and couldn’t wait to punish the white ball to let others know who the real boss is. And I knew the boss was never this cocky koala after just one round. He would soon go back nibbling at his favorite eucalyptus. As for Chris, a diligent apprentice whose stance and swinging resemble Byron at the streak, he longed for a nice experience to feel like a successful business tycoon also able to negotiate any contract on the course with best skills to sink 18 holes with style. It was high time, in my opinion, to practice out what he had learned at the range and the honor would be his, his hard working, and me, his part-time coach, of course. In addition to taking the three for a tutorial guide around the course, I myself managed to test pilot my ‘SpeedmaQ’ and F60s to drive the ball far and long in the air with an OB-free inspiring new restart after three years of dormancy with a total under 85. Like Martin, we all had a dream.

Things turned out to be something else beyond my innocent fantasy. When arriving at Lin Kuo, we were confronted with a golden-coated treasure box with a big lock on the latch. It looked so pretty and perfect, beaming with surprise allusion clandestinely. It attracted us to try so hard to open it and finally I ahhed. Well, I would have never done so if I had knew earlier, only a bit earlier, that the huge bank safe was homemade, not Taylor-made, by a bitch named Pandora, because at the end I found the combination of codes to open the unknowing damn’ big vault should be 161v-153p-203c-103c (Later I got the info that I miscounted the score by adding one more OB penalty stroke, whithout which the combination should be some 115v- 120p- 150c- 99c).

It was a mess overall: driving countless OBs like a starry, starry night, digging agriculturally into the ground as if in celebration on Groundhog’s Day, lurching in the sands to save the Private Ryan, scrutinizing around the root-tangled old trees so carefully to find the lost balls as a dedicated botanist, generously donating sleek new balls to golf course as some anonymous philanthropist, only too bustled in hubbub to ignore the neigh and sigh of our caddy as she played alone Liszt’s classic Un Sospiro. The scene built up a cruel bloody battle field, a place where we fought with our scrawny egos against inexorable Goliath, a sure death proper. However, still to my greatest amazement, it was a sure death with dignity and faith, and, most importantly, with a promise of perseverance and hope.

During the war, I saw the three, to mention more precisely, me added, slaughtered and eviscerated almost hole by hole: Pat chopped, Victor smashed, and especially Chris, who was hauled in pieces by the merciless Giant Arnold onto a 3-wheeled equipage, before when Lin and Victor went fighting him valiantly at the gusty gorge with their nonstop and aggressive catapults, lacerating the big guy on the throat, not lethally though, but devastatingly to some degree. And we all knew we needed a big turnround after the great loss on this day.

We all died at last, with our golf pride in the fists. 

As leaving the firing zone, I retraced our dead bodies and weapons and thought to myself, wishing me another Resurrection and Comeback. So would I name the whole Roman-Caesarean epic RC, not only for my bold wish, but for Lin himself that showed me on this day his dedication and commitment to golf playing regardless of his Record-Creating macabre score but his tireless brave tries to make a nice shot on many conditions on the tees, fairways, roughs, fringes, greens, at the water hazards, in the bunkers, and even under the trees, which showed his Resilience and Courage, Restrains and Calmness, without being Relinqished and Cloyed. And he shared all this and a mysterious Radiant Club with me on this day as one of my most surprising gifts for a Refreshing Christmas, which will be filled with wonderful Recalls and Colors to Remember a tough guy called Chris, a totally Refreshed Chris, not Retarded Clark. The gift symbolized a Rebound from the Chaos of golf, also a promising Reach to Crest, by which Chris and I become decent golf partners, and thus we may bestow ourselves eligibly together with the legendary Royal Collection.