I've spent a fair amount of time at driving ranges over the years, even if my ball-striking might suggest otherwise. I'm not talking about the real grass, Titleist-pyramid ranges of private club dreams, but your typical asphalt and Astroturf public ranges where the balls have long been stripped of dimples, the clubs you can borrow are from now-defunct manufacturers, and the characters tend to fall into clearly-defined categories.1. The middle management executive on his lunch break. He's got his tie tucked into his dress shirt, a fountain soda from Wendy's at his side, and he's got 20 minutes until he's back to the drudgery of conference calls...
