Sometimes, success comes from hanging loose rather than striving.

His critics called him
an under par guy,
A duffer whose drive
made iffy the lie.

But winning to him
meant living in style,
Golfing for fun on
some Hawaiian isle.

Somewhere to amble
along eighteen holes,
Where black lava sands
meet shimmering shoals.

Somewhere to swing
with more of a smile,
And watch the sweet spots
sail on for a mile.

He'd rather hang loose
around the resorts,
and mingle with folks
too pale to wear shorts.

He'd coach the clueless
through hazards and traps,
and let hacks play holes
not found on their maps.

He'd help the hopeless
learn how to succeed
when stuck in tall grass
way up to their knees.

He'd work out disputes
with virtuous heart.
A ball was still fair
that bounced off the cart.

When chip shots were shanked,
and short putts were duds,
He'd show how to laugh
at all of the flubs.

When woods whiffed the ball
and irons went cold,
He'd shamble the shots
and rectify holds.

His trophies would be
the shine in his eyes,
As good given out
returned twice the size.