Having returned from vacation, I have come to the realization that I would not be one of those working lottery winners.

You know the ones I mean.

When interviewed after winning a bazillion dollars they say that they will return to their job at the factory or the mall or the office.

Not me.

This year, my usual two-week vacation seemed wholly inadequate.

Don't get me wrong, I really like my job. I like making newspapers. I like the pace. I like being in the thick of things. I like writing. I like fooling with computers and other electronic devices.

But this year, for the first time in a long time, we didn't take a big trip anywhere. We stayed home, mostly. A quick trip to the Henry Ford Museum in Detroit was the only real traveling we did.

So what this did was give me an idea of what it would be like to be a lottery winner, only without the money.

I liked it.

No alarm clock. Just hanging around the house. Spending quality time with the wife and kids. (Well, as quality as it gets with the kids. They are teens, after all.)

Completing long-neglected household projects. Engaging in hobbies and recreational activities like fishing, swimming, skiing, or golf.

Motorcycling to nowhere and back with the Mrs.

Or just sitting on the deck chatting and watching the sun set.

I could get used to that. I would only have to hire a good accountant, attorney and investment guy.

No need to spend a bunch on ostentatious housing or anything like that.

No stable of exotic sports cars. Well, maybe one exotic sports car. And a Harley. And a Honda VFR.

I wouldn't move to Palm Springs or Palm Beach or any other palmy place.

It would just be nice to relax and travel once in a while.

I know what you're saying. You're saying I'd be bored.

No way. I have too many hobbies.

And I could always work on my golf game.

I wouldn't be obsessed with golf, you see. OK, I would be obsessed.

But I wouldn't be obsessed to the point where it alienated me from my wife, family and friends.

I would tame that maddening game. I would make it mine. I would own it.

I have been playing for about five years now. I should have started long before that.

My son, who is 16, routinely thrashes me. He once said to me, in honesty and sincerity, "Gosh, Dad, you've been playing golf for a long time. How come you don't have it mastered yet?"

I could have thrown him in the water hazard and rolled him in the sand trap.

He has had rounds of 73, 76, 78, 79, blah, blah, blah.

I have yet to break 80. I shot 80 once - once.

Something always seems to go awry - always.

This may seem trivial to some, but I am not deterred. I will break 80 or die trying.

It's a matter of pride.

While on vacation, I was in the pro shop at Maxwelton where I am a member. A couple guys showed up a few minutes late for a tee time. This was no problem at all because it was a weekday morning.

The guys politely apologized for being late so I - attempting to be witty and humorous - interjected, "What's the penalty for that around here?" Bob the pro looked at them, nodded toward me and said, "We make you play behind Gerard."

Outwitted again.

See, the problem with golf is that there are far too many things that can go wrong in the second-and-a-half that it takes to swing a golf club.

Things will seem to be going pretty well. Then suddenly, without warning, horrible things happen.

I hit a few nice tee shots and then knock one across the road into somebody's front lawn.

I hit a few nice iron shots and then hit behind it so far the beaver-tail divot I carve flies farther than the ball.

I can roll in a couple nice 8-foot putts then miss from 18 inches.

It's crazy.

Just yesterday, during a tournament, I squibbed a shot off the first tee across the putting green for crying out loud.

Golf people talk about muscle memory. That's when your muscles remember how to make good shots.

I am more interested in muscle amnesia. That's when your muscles forget how to make bad shots.

One day I was standing on the 17th tee at 7 over par. That's 79 if I can par the last two holes - both par fours.

I hit a great drive. I calmly stood over my 120-yard approach. I dipped my right shoulder and hit the ground.

I calmly replaced my divot, walked approximately 12 yards to my ball and tried again.

I hit the ground again.

I am no longer calm.

I blade one off the back of the green. I shank one into the sand. I blast out and two-putt for a quadruple-bogey eight.

I shoot double-bogey on 18 and card an 85. Six over par on the last two holes, 13 over for the round.

Dejected, I stand in the parking lot muttering "I suck at golf" to myself.

Non-golfers don't understand. They say, "So what?" or "Who cares?" They think people like me are weird or even delusional.

That's nonsense. I am completely grounded in reality.

Time is running out for me, though. I have only seven years before I'm eligible for the senior PGA tour.

And all I need to make it happen is a winning lottery ticket. [[In-content Ad]]