Golf practice was hotter than Hades today. Some people call it hell, I call it Hades. Man, was it hot. It was so hot that at one point fish were jumping out of the water just to cool off. The temperatures right now are roughly 13-14 degrees above normal, about 140 degrees, which has made for a very long practice season.

Of course, I didn't let the Sahara-esque temps stop me today. No sir. I proudly drove the ball down the left side of the #6 fairway and then stuck the ball five feet from the pin with a glorious 7-iron from about 160 yards out. I sunk the putt for birdie, and I did the Fletcher Birdie dance, which involves me running around in circles like a maniac, screaming at the top of my lungs, bouncing around with all the grace of an epileptic fish on a frying pan getting electrocuted by a lightning bolt striking a metal shark cage underwater.

But I have been thinking. Running and dancing about like that is actually pretty poor sportsmanship, like when football players who score a touchdown do something that brings attention to themselves. Examples of this are acting like they are mooning the crowd, pulling out a cellphone and holding an actual conversation with someone in the stands, or running over to the opposing team's cheerleaders and giving the prettiest one a big kiss.

Any athlete knows that you're supposed to act like you've been there before, like it's no big deal, as though what you just did is as mundane as successfully stopping at a stop sign or looking both ways before you cross the street. I mean, nobody gets out of shape and acts crazy when they cross the street without getting hit. If you were sprinting across Rangeline in Joplin on a Saturday evening, then maybe you could dance, but crossing a street in Columbus just ain't a big deal. I mean, old ladies with two broken hips on Rascals with dead batteries can make it across the street safely in Columbus. So it is definitely poor sportsmanship to show up your opponent and make yourself bigger than the game.

But I never scored a touchdown in football, although I picked up a fumble and ran the wrong way once in 4th grade. I never even came close. Something about being slow and a devastating fear of bodily harm kept me from pursuing an NFL career.

Birdies are pretty rare for me- more rare than the Great Flatulent Purple-Throated Swan (extinct as of 1743- the last one was killed by Sir Norman of Potsdam off the coast of Ireland.)

So you know what I say?

Screw it. Let's dance. And dance I did, I danced like the wind, until I was too tired to continue.

But the golf Gods do not take arrogance lightly.

Following my big celebration, I promptly strode to the next tee box, set my ball, took a practice swing, and then.....

shanked the ball about 90 degrees straight right out of bounds into the vast forest.

I think I heard a deer scream in pain.

I should go check on it. Hopefully if I hit it, it died quickly.

Then, one day, when that dead deer's glazed, stupid eyes are blankly staring into the abyss of eternity above my fireplace mantle, people will ask me,

"What did you get him with? A 30.06?"

I'll shake my head and reply, "Nope. 3 Wood."