By Joe Logan Inquirer Golf Columnist It happened again, just the other day, when I was playing golf on vacation in North Carolina. For nine holes or more, I zipped around the course with my son, my niece's husband and a young friend, the fastest foursome on wheels. Ready, golf. Find it. Hit it. Go find it again. Heck, at the rate we were playing, we figured we'd be back at the beach cottage in time for dinner - before that ominous cloud in the distance could spoil the fun. But suddenly, not long into the back nine, the round ground to a halt. We'd caught up to the group that had been well in front of us, four yahoos who seemed to be under the mistaken impression that this was the final round of the U.S. Open. While we stood on the tee or in the fairway, leaning on our club seething with impatience, they dawdled. This being...
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