I have been a little disconcerted lately about the stuff I normally write about.

You know, the usual suspects - prisoner abuse, a retaliatory beheading, huge federal deficits, a nastily partisan presidential campaign, soaring gas prices.

In the news business, one is always immersed in, well, news. CNN is on all the time in the newsroom. And these days, the news just doesn't seem to be all that bright.

I don't think it's a case of looking at the glass half full or half empty, either. The whole Iraq mess makes things look a tad bit bleak.

So when things seem bleak, it's time to do something fun. It's time for a diversion. I have a couple diversions. One is music. The other is golf.

So Wednesday afternoon I took off a little early and headed to Maxwelton Golf Club.

There is a Wednesday game there. It's kind of intimidating for me because the guys in the Wednesday game are good.

They're the guys who are always in the running for the club championship in the top flight.

I, on the other hand, am in the running for the lost ball championship in the hack flight.

But never mind.

I like to get in the Wednesday game because a wise golfer once told me that competition is a good way to sharpen your game. Plus, if I'm really lucky, I could win fabulous prizes. Well, maybe a few bucks.

On Wednesdays, there are usually around 20 guys in the game. The top four or five are designated captains. Then they take turns picking from the remaining golfers hanging around the putting green.

It always reminds me of elementary school kickball games in reverse. I was a pretty fair kickball player and almost always went in the first round.

In the Wednesday game, I'm the last one chosen.

That's because my game is so erratic. You never know what you're going to get with me and everybody knows it.

For example, I once went around the par 36 front nine at Maxwelton in 44 strokes - with four birdies. Even without a calculator you can plainly see that on the five holes I didn't birdie, I was 12 over.

I can make great golf shots - once in a while.

It's not that I don't try. I just haven't figured out how to calm down, stay focused and remain consistent.

But really, in golf, who has? Even Tiger has bad days, right?

So the choose-up ended and off I went to the first tee.

I hit a nice drive and knocked my approach onto the green.

Hey, nothing to this game.

Then I made a nice three-putt and took a bogey.

Things went downhill from there.

My drive on hole two hit a tree about 60 yards from the tee. I made double bogey.

After my tee shot on hole three, a par three, I missed so far right I was hardly any closer to the hole than when I started.

Another double bogey.

My memory of the front nine is somewhat blurred by the searing mediocrity of my game, but I remember standing over about a 20-foot par putt on number nine thinking to myself, "If I make this, I can make 50."

I left it on the lip.

Yeah, six doubles, no pars - 51. I was feeling really bad for my playing partners who by now, while completely polite, cordial and supportive, had to be thinking what an idiot I was.

I mean, after all, there is money riding on this. I am supposed to contribute to the team.

As we stood on the number 10 tee, one of my team members, Jeff Moore, chided, "You broke 60, Gary."

Number 10 is a par five, and I was happy after my tee shot that I wasn't in trouble. I wasn't in the fairway, but I wasn't in deep trouble either, which was quite a relief.

Two shots later (one of which was a little chunky) I found myself around 60 yards from the green.

My playing partners were all lying two.

Steve Walters was a few yards behind me. He hits his shot. It's a beautiful golf shot. It lands softly in the middle of the green, the pin is back. It bounces a couple times, rolls gently toward the hole and falls in - for eagle.

I am ecstatic. I congratulate him with a high five.

I hit my shot onto the green. I have a par putt. Yippee!

It's a putt I will never take.

Moore's second shot landed just a few yards short of the green.

He's preparing to chip for eagle. I'm watching him as I'm walking up the fairway toward the green with my golf bag strapped on my back. (I always walk when I play golf if I can. I pretend it's exercise.)

Wow, we could have two eagles on number 10, I'm thinking to myself.

He draws the club back - I'm walking - he follows through - I'm walking - the ball leaves the clubface and becomes airborne ...

Then I hear three rapid popping sounds from the area of my left ankle and there is this sudden, intense pain shooting up my left leg and into my lower back.

I fall to the ground in a heap, clubs and all. A wave of anxiety - not to mention nausea - washes over me as I realize I have just sprained - or broken - my ankle.

I stepped in an indention in the fairway that contained a sprinkler and rolled over my ankle.

What an idiot.

I unstrap the bag and struggle to get up. I can put weight on the ankle. Relief, it's not broken. But the pain is intense and I realize this round is over.

I hobble to the green and retrieve my ball. The other player in our foursome, Bruce McClure, loads me into a cart and hauls me to the clubhouse.

I drove home and iced the ankle.

At this writing, I haven't heard how the Wednesday game turned out. But I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to my playing partners for leaving them in the lurch like that.

But frankly, they were probably better off without me.

Ah, a relaxing afternoon of golf.

I should have gone home and watched CNN. [[In-content Ad]]