My swing is so bad I look like a caveman killing his lunch.

I still swing the way I used to, but when I look up the ball is going in a different direction.

I have an orthopedic pillow that's made out of a sponge material. I have a plate in my throat, and I have to be careful or I could end up with a bad neck in the morning. That pillow is a must everywhere I go.

No one who ever had lessons would have a swing like mine.

I'm a golfaholic, no question about that. Counseling wouldn't help me. They'd have to put me in prison, and then I'd talk the warden into building a hole or two and teach him how to play.

I still sweat. My guts are still grinding out there. Sometimes I have enough cotton in my mouth to knit a sweater.

The older I get, the better I used to be.