\"TALKING TO THE BALL\": Every hacker\'s heartache.They’re all here: The golfers who watch their putt lip out at the last instant. The ones who get in dutch with their wives for playing too many rounds. The ones who solve the frustration of the sport by lowering their expectations. Who try to talk their ball into a straight flight pattern. Who dream about a hole-in-one so vividly it seems real. Who bemoan handicap that has doubled to 24. Who remember a small bit of golf wisdom that changed their lives.Bob Baker’s CD of original songs about the idiocy of golf, “Talking to the Ball,” provokes laughs and groans and more laughs and more groans. Its honesty and appeal lies in the fact that the 7 songs were written and sung by a high-handicap (don\'t ask) golfer.Bob, a lifelong Los Angeles resident, is a freelance journalist and songwriter who spent 34 years in the newspaper business, 26 of them at the Los Angeles Times.The lyrics:1. TALKING TO THE BALLEvery time I slice you over the fenceI start a conversation Don’t make one bit of senseIt’s a chat you don’t take part inThough I wish you couldMaybe you could tell me what I’m I doin’ wrong with my lousy 5 woodLike a homeless guy screaming outside city hallI think I’m playing golf but I’m just talking to the ball.Talking to my ball, telling it to sitOn the green then watching it decide it will not quitBouncing towards the high grass, reminding us allWe think we’re playing golf but we’re just talking to the ball.Most the guys I play with seem to think their ball can hearWhen you see this for the first time, it’s positively weirdThey wait until they hit the ball, and then they start to begAs though the ball could fly and land and walk away on legs “Oh, no, get outta that sand trap!” You can hear them callThey think they’re playing golf but they’re just talking to the ball.Talking to the ball, telling it to fadeLike I can intimidate it, make it afraidGoing where it wants to, no warnings at allI think I’m playing golf but I’m just talking to the ballINSTRUMENTAL The next time I drive you 120 yards on the groundI’m gonna summon up my anger, spread it all aroundI’m gonna grab my red Sharpie and write “BAD” across your frontI’m gona stop talking to you, ‘cause you can’t even gruntI’m gonna buy my balls at Wal-Mart, cheapest of ‘em allI’m gonna be playing golf instead of talking to the ballI’m gonna be hitting, not talking(Repeat 3 times)No more talking to the ball(Repeat 2 times)2. MY HANDICAPMy problem started with missing short puttsI fixed that, but I tore my rotator cuffI rehabbed that, but I weakened my driveNow I need some preacher to keep hope aliveFor my handicapMy handicap,mMy handicaphas doubled to 24The Mens Club posted new results todayI’m 97th in a field of 98And the guy I’m beating just had a strokeI got to wonder if he’ll catch me or whether I’ll choke onMy handicap, my handicap, m handicapI’m limping down an un-fairwayLike a former president and hacker once said, ‘Please, feel my pain’ I used to have my pride, I used to walk tall,Now I shake like a leaf addressing the ball.I can’t show my face in the locker roomThe 19th hole’s a beer pit of gloomIn my nightmares, I arise to find my handicap is bigger than my waist sizeI suffer from the worst glitch of ‘em all:Hittin’ on the upper third of the ball.Shame, y’know, is a serious disorder,It can give you the yips, drive you to murder--soI hope the club will soon update The stat that has made me the guy to berateFor my handicap(Repeat 5 times)My handicapLimping down an un-fairway3. LOW EXPECTATIONSMy shrink says to me: “You’re a happy little guyAll my other hackers whine, could you please tell me whyNothing ever gets to you?”I said “Doc, it’s a simple equation. I greet every hole with Low expectations”You won’t hear me cussing myselfWhen my chip shot soars somewhere elseI\'m not counting on precision when I play this game, SonA good walk’s never spoiled withLow expectationsHere’s what I meanWhen I line up my tee shotI don’t know where it’s goin’It’s always a journey, there’s no way of knowin’3 putts on a par 4 doesn’t get me uptightCuz I expect nothing--and I’m always rightINSTRUMENTALMy message toYou Doc, and to all your hackers is:Be the antithesis of the Green Bay PackersAdversity?Loss?Disappointment?Fear?Well, make ‘em your friends,Have em over for a beerOut goes Mister Righteous IndignationLet’s welcome home Mister Low Expectations.SPOKEN: You know, Doc, it kinda kills me the way you sit there and nod and never speak. You ever play golf? What? Miniature golf? Are you Crazy? Oh, sorry I used the C-word. My bad. Lemme buy you a drink later on today. Just remember…the glass is gonna be half empty4. DON’T BLOW THIS PUTTOn the 18th holeI measured it goodA 6-foot puttWas all that stoodBetween me and a 75, my all-time bestI’d shot 2-under on the front 9In all my years I’dnever felt so fine—so hot, so precise…beforeAnd now I whispered my mantraWhatever you do, don’t blow this puttWhatever you do don’t blow this puttWhatever you do--don’t blow this putt.I was jinxing myself, tempting fateI was hurrying, I didn’t want to waitDidn’t wanna lose The great vibe I had todayNot just the eagle on a par 4, or the 80-yard birdie chip or, what’s more,The hundred ninety-yard approach shot that put me here, sayingWhatever you do, don’t blow this puttWhatever you do, don’t blow this puttWhatever you do--don’t blow this puttINSTRUMENTAL I knelt behind it, for the downhill breakLooked again, thought I’d made a mistakeWas it gonna break left? Was it gonna break left?I felt like screaming: don’t miss this putt!I pushed it right a touch too much It broke left on lip and did a three-sixtyI turned away I couldn’t bear to watch Another lip-out--I knew I’d blown that putt!SPOKEN…MUSIC FADES OUT:Stop the tape.Let the sucker make itMUSIC FADES IN…I felt like screaming: Don’t miss this putt!pushed it right, a touch too muchIt broke left on the lip and did a three sixty,Which meant it was coming out but gravity took control,sucked it in the hole and for once--I didn’t blow that putt!!!5. I DREAMED I MADE AN ACE ON 12Well I dreamed I had an ace on twelveAnd it’s funny cause it seemsThat my game is full of bogeysUntil I begin to dreamTwelve’s a hard one, with an uphill green that plays two hundred four from the whitesTo get on, I’d need my driver, but I’d get laughed at… as somebody’s wife.So I take… my four-iron And I slow down my backswing,And my hips come forth and I feel great contact and wait for what my dream will bringWell the ball comes down and somebody says, “Hey Bobby, that sucker’s going in!”When all I know is that I hit it straight; what’s got into him?Then I see it bounce upon the apron, and I see it bounce again And one more bounce, till it hits the flagstick, gives up, and falls in.And I dreamed that I had an ace on 12Beers all around for everybody on 12That’s my dream (Repeat 4 times)6. JOE’S APOLOGY TO WANDA Joe walked up to his door with his clubs and sawThe moving van and his mother-in-lawAnd his wife, Wanda, teary-eyed, with a goodbye cardWanda said, “Joe you’re on shaky ground,You been playing too many roundsNow all I want you to do is listen to me”...but Joe stopped her, and he said: Forgive me baby, I put golf firstI done some bad things to you, but this one’s the worseI couldn’t see past me, I deserved God’s curseForgive me baby, I put golf firstWanda cried, then grabbed Joe’s clubs and swung, crumbling Joe like a cheap old rug and he lay there on the pavement with a broken leg, and heard her say“I’ve dreamed about leaving a hundred times before. You’ve turned into a crashing bore. God may forgive you, but I can’t any more.\"Joe tried again: “ Forgive me baby, I put golf first,” But Wanda hit him with a 3-iron, and then she held up her purse, and said: See this, Joey, I cleaned out all the accounts, I’ll see you next time in a hearse.”I’m gonna find a better man who’ll put me firstSPOKEN: Well a lot of water went under the bridge. Joe became a PGA regular and submitted “I Put Golf First” to a songwriter magazine contest—and won. Wanda took note of this, and called a girlfriend who was a secretary at “American Idol,” which is where, on June 4, 2008, Joe and Wanda reconciled in a duet that endedForgive me babyForgive me babyForgive me babyI put golf first.7. ARE YOU COMMITTED TO YOUR SWING?I was 12, hitting range ballsWhen an old man thought he saw some flaws in my gameHe asked me, “Boy, are you committedto your swing?”I was too dumb to understandHe said, “Look! Look at your handsThey sabotage your stanceYou ain’t lined up rightYou don’t stand a chanceYou’re almost thereBut you’re trapped by proximityTil’ your body is committed to your swing,You’re not what you could be He made me double check my shoulders and my waistOnly then was my swing of a’liking to his tasteAnd when I thanked him he growled like bearHe said, “I’d rather puke than watchsomeone get stuck at ‘almost there’”INSTRUMENTALAlmost thereTrapped by proximityI figured out real quickThat’s not enough for meSome day soon if i’m not deadI’m gonna write down what the old man saidand find ….some kid … who i can scare into committing to his swingto committing to his swing so he won’t get stuck atalmost therealmost therealmost therealmost there