Long story about Clutch Mother Zilch and unless you’ve read Dan Jenkins’ Goat Hills story you won’t get it. The story is good. Great, actually.

The result is not.

I lived the result Monday in the annual Origin Bank Scramble at Squire Creek Country Club in Choudrant, where every day is a good day. Was proud to be there.

And ashamed at the same time.

My team was a virile, sturdy bunch of young and likable guys. No faults. But I was the rotten grape on top of a hot fudge sundae.

I am not very good at golf. Want to be. Try. Fun to play with. Don’t complain. But Monday, I had the Golf Jits you dream about only in your worst 18-hole nightmares.

Could not even putt. Count not hit the ball, standing still, on level grass.

Jits.

In the Roman Catholic doctrine, I am reading that purgatory is “a place or state of suffering inhabited by the souls of sinners who are expiating their sins before going to heaven.” Don’t know for sure what “expiating” means but it does not sound good.

It sounds like what I did Monday.

We finished at a 3-under 69. Not awful. But if I could have contributed, we’d have had a 64. Maybe a 63. Out of the prize money, but still a joyous time and a solid number, considering.

I have written letters to every member of my team except the DW co-founder, who felt my pain and who I’ve played countless (not really countless, because we’d have counted them if we’d cared) rounds of golf with. He felt sorry for me.

In the letters, I apologized to Origin Bank, Squire Creek, the golfing community, and the American People. I’ll try harder next time.