It did my old heart good to see Mssrs. Brooks, Goosen and Cink (real names) dub their putts on the 18th green and at the U.S. Open on Sunday In Tulsa, Okla. I enjoyed every whiff because I am the World’s Worst Golfer. Anyone with less talent for golf never would have the nerve to step on a course.

The first ball I ever hit on a golf course went perfectly perpendicular into a clubhouse crowd watching action on the first tee. I may have never recovered.

I have hit balls straight up. I have hit balls that went backwards because there was so much spin when they hit the ground. I have lost scores of golf balls. I once lost a golf CLUB!

What I used to do was buy a dozen balls to go golfing and when they were gone, usually on the fourth hole, I would go home. I never even bothered to keep score.

Once on a company golf outing, I teed off in the last foursome, but was back in the clubhouse before most of the golfers were done. It was that mountainside course in Brooks, where the second or third hole has a water hazard. I teed off on every ball I had until they were all safely sunk in the pond. Then I was off to the clubhouse, whistling.

For reasons only a lapsed Roman Catholic could understand, I insist on going golfing at least once a year. I am very popular on a golf course. My friends love to take me out, knowing that they will win by at least 10 strokes on the front nine. I never bother with the back nine, knowing that darkness would intervene.

The problem with golf is that every so often you hit a perfect, screaming line drive that drops in the middle of the fairway. It feels good from your ankles to your hair. The rest of the round is spent trying to figure out: “How did I do that?” I once outdrove New Hampshire amateur champion Frank “Rabbit” Renew. I once parred the second hole at Rockland Golf Course, but never expect to do either of these things again. They can be explained as freaks of nature, like Kathy Lee Gifford.

People tell me the problem is my clubs. I have a bag of 1940-era clubs that were left behind in my barn by one ex-tenant or another. People who know golf tell me they are perfect for an average 8-year-old. My problem is that I constantly hit grounders and never achieve that perfect, graceful long distance arc that real golfers do. Experts tell me that is because my clubs are 3 feet too short.

I spend money like a sailor on crack most of the time, but I refuse to buy real clubs until I can hit the ball into the air. My experts tell me I cannot hit the ball in the air until I get new clubs. It is the Catch-22 of the fairway.

Of course, the greatest fun is hitting that damned white ball as hard as you can and lifting your head up as soon as you can in order to track the arc of the ball. Real golfers say these are the very worst things you can do. Hey, let them play their game and I will play mine.

It wasn’t me who dubbed the 1-foot putts at Tulsa.

Fore!