"Here's Looking Up Your Old Address..."

Here's the deal... If I'm going to continue to spend my time and money pursuing a little white spheroid over some well manicure cow pasture for alleged fun and recreation, I at least want to have the satisfaction of knowing that when I tee up that little white ball of frustration and strike it with immeasurable force that I can actually watch it go kaplunk into yon lake. Heretofore that has not been the case. When I play now I must do so in the company of an individual, unlike me, who can actually see beyond their shoelaces.

It is also a newly minted goal of mine to be able to again read the directional highway signs so that I don't inadvertently end up headed to Birmingham, Alabama when my intent is to arrive somewhere in the general vicinity of Atlanta. And just for kicks, I'd like to again be able to watch a sporting event on television without having to have my nose planted snugly against the screen to determine the score. That is why today I bit the bullet and decided to go for my initial exam to have Laski eye surgery.

Thankfully the two and a half hour exam was relatively painless...not unlike the infamous colonoscopy exams I've endured where, as the syndicated Miami Herald humor columnist, Dave Barry, so eloquently described as not unlike having a long, slender tube inserted up one's hinder regions that when extended to full length would uncoil from the city limits of St. Petersburg, Florida to somewhere just south of the North Pole.

Included in my exam was an array of tests to determine just how well I can see at this particular time. The standard eye charts were employed with rows of letters and numbers that the attending technician asked repeatedly, "Tell me what you see?" Unless the letters and numbers are as large as the font on your standard billboard, my response was, "Speak a little louder so I'll know where you are." This was followed by trips to different exam rooms wherein there are tabletop gizmos into which one stares intently at a focused light so bright that it rivals the noon day sun. "Don't blink!" instructed the technician, as a river of tears washed across my face. "Now the other eye... No sir, the other eye! Put your chin back on the support cup... No...it's to your left! A little further left... You've almost got it!" My response, "Keep talking... I'll get it in a minute."

Finally the last procedure is initiated. That's where they dilate your pupils to the size of trash can lids, place a clear plastic cup filled with water over each eye and tell you again not to blink and to sit very still. If this is anything like water-boarding, then I can understand why I was ready to give up the number to my checking account just to get this procedure to come to an end. Now that my eyes were as wide open as the Air Force One hanger doors, I was given a sliver of dark opaque plastic to place between my nose and my eye glasses so that I could walk out into the ultra bright Florida sunlight to accomplish to reasonable goals: #1) to find my vehicle and #2) to not stumble through and tramp down the landscaping in the process. Success on both counts.

So now all that is left is to decide which of three lens options I prefer (and can afford). The first choice is to have an optical lens implanted in each eye that will restore my distance vision, but I'd still need glasses to read. The second option is to restore my distance and intermediate vision range, but reading glasses of a lower magnitude would still most likely be required. The third option - and most expensive - would be to restore my distance vision so that I can see the island of Cuba from my back yard and my up close vision to the point where I can accurately identify atomic particles. I'm toying with either option one or two.

Hopefully in about a month I will say goodbye to my cataracts and hello to the pin on the 4th hole, 460 yards away. A looped advertisement was playing in the physician's wating area that featured endorsements from several prominent public figures, one of which was Gary Player, the South African professional golfer. He attested that before he underwent the corrective Laski procedure, he struggled to break par. After the procedure, Mr. Player entered a tournament and, at the age of 71, posted a score of 79. That's my goal. I am hoping that I will now be able to post a round of golf that is equal to my age. I currently average 91 strokes per round. That means in thirty more years I should indeed be able to shoot my age. FORE!!