So what part of the title do you want to hear first? Well, I'm just funnin' you on the latter, but finding your golf game at 72? Well, that's serious business and nothing to joke about. My golf game — if it ever existed — left me sometime around the time I was 17 and was never found again, until recently when recent long summer days promoted "practice, man, practice". That's the way you get to Carnegie Hall and also the way to get rid of a banana slice that has plagued me for all of my adult years until now. Actually, my athletic wife, Sue, has proved that you don't need to practice in order to be perfect on the golf course. 25 years ago, she aced therings, a surprisingly difficult shot of 154 yards that has produced the only hole-in-one in the Gross family. Unfortunately, she hit the hole with an ugly chartreuse ball that sits atop her hole-in-one trophy at home. Ugly is the only word to describe it, but it was the ball that went in, so there it rests in semi-perpetuity. Still, even Sue, who cares much less about golf than I do, treats it as a symbolic arrow towards future triumphs on the course. I know, because every time we play a par 3, she reaches into her bag for a spankin' new white Titleist, tees it up just so, and swings for another magical shot that will surely top the first — if only because of the color of the ball. She left me in the chartreuse dust long ago and will probably do the same in the future with a white ball. Practice can't buy you a hole-in-one.