When I say swag, do you know what I mean? Sometimes I forget that differences exist. How silly of me. How narrow-minded of me. How arrow-blinded of me. Just because four of us are throwing at the same basket, it doesn’t mean we all expect the same kind of handshake at the end. There are always at least a dozen gaps, if you gowide enough, look high enough. I was standing there and he said he hated my best friend. I missed the putt, but so did he. In the end I won this hat and a disc I promised Robbie I’d never throw. Swag. Who wants to trade? Though he whined like a BMW on a Muncie road, the guy in the batting glove was supportive. Though he hated my best friend, the man who gave up taking off his bag for putts genuinely laughed at my jokes. Still, I prefer standing on a muddy bank with Jason and my beer. Still, I wonder what Andrew’s up to? Just look at the different sizes of bags, some like long handled lunch boxes, others more like backpacks for the trenches. Just tell me we don’t all want different things.