Unhappy Gilmore

I spot it from a distance, finally, as I park and choose my weapon.  The end is in sight, but I know I can't make it, so I think damage control.  Too far that way it's lost forever and too far there and it will never stop.  I bend my knees as I clutch the club, bring it back, swing it forward, and skim the grass.  If what they say about practice being perfect, then I should be ready.  I calculate my biased tendencies of being too far to the right so I aim a little left, move forward and place my club right up to the ball where it will make contact upon execution of swing.  I keep my club where it is and move my feet back 2.2 more inches so my butt is pushed up a little awkwardly, the way I was taught, and I push my hands down to keep the club nice and straight to try and have my imperfect form just right.  I bring the pendulum back over my shoulder so I can see the tip of the club in my left eye's peripheral vision and I follow through releasing the swing to make contact with the ball as the pendulum completes itself bringing my swing all the way around.  A chunk of grass flies and the ball doesn't move, again.  I feel the rage of Happy Gilmore and hope that my first day on the coarse isn't my best work to come.