What the ring did after it left the pier

I kept a 7-iron in the trunk through a July of Maumee Bay rounds. The collar went cloudy and sat proud of the paint. Corinne replaced it with cabinet nylon and told me to stop storing the set under hockey pads. Two humid months later the sit is still flush. The hockey pads now have their own corner.

Someone had heat-gunned a driver ferrule onto a graphite tip at a mall kiosk. It looked round until daylight. Marek split the old ring on a block, refused to twist it, and hung the new joint overnight. I wanted it the same afternoon for a league. He said no. The league survived. The tip did too.

My irons had three blacks. I thought I was imagining it until Tess laid them under the pier lamp. She pulled one dye lot and turned eight collars. The 5-iron no longer looks like it belongs to a different decade. She would not dye the odd ones. I am glad she would not.

Putter neck ring was a millimetre proud. I noticed it every time I looked down. Tiny job, slow hands, sit checked at address height. I still look down. Now I am looking at a line, not a step.

We brought a swollen hybrid collar in January after indoor heat cracked it. They recut, warned us about furnace returns, and it still split six weeks later because I left it on a dashboard to “warm up.” Second ring is on me. They still charged the humidity rate, not a lecture rate.