As usual, being one who can't seem to follow my own advice, I started playing using several different swings and putting styles on the front nine before I settled in to just hitting the damned ball at the target.
For some reason, the course either seemed to play longer than its yardage, or I was just hitting it shorter. Either way, many of my approach shots finished short, and I was forced to do lots of scrambling for pars that often ended up being bogeys. Momma said there would be days like this.
In the end, it was a nice day with my son on a very nice course. And, on the last hole, I actually played some golf. After pushing my tee shot into the right trees, I punched a six iron out low towards the green. It came to rest short and left of the green, leaving me short-sided to a front pin. I grabbed my 60 degree wedge and headed for the ball announcing to Matt that I wouldn't be needing my putter because I intended to knock it in.
Sure enough, I hit a nice little chip that hit the flag dead centre and ended up a few inches from the hole. Matt just shook his head and said, "Thank goodness that ball didn't go in. There'd have been no living with you."
I said, "Remember that article I wrote about call shots? That, my boy, was what you call a call shot."