My anxiety was building to extreme levels. I only had a three-footer left to close out the match. Dozens of people were watching. My wife, my mom, and, for some unknown reason, my cranky, sideburn-sporting math teacher from Grade 8 was also there. I’m a little foggy on this part, but I believe Donald J. Trump, toupee flapping in the wind, and his hillbilly sidekick were also in the gallery, heckling me from behind the green. I was squirming, fidgeting, sweating profusely, and I just couldn’t pull the trigger on my putt. Read More