NOTE: It’s strange, but I’ve received several requests to republish this column. Maybe it’s so those of you who are talented on golf course will have someone to laugh at. Or maybe you just like my column. Nawww, it’s probably the first reason.

My nephew, Chris, is a golf wizard.

He’s not just “good” — he’s great.

Seriously, he should have one of those sparkly cloaks with moons and suns and a tall pointed hat with a crest of eagles crossed with five irons.

He’s got the nifty leather bag and all the hand-polished-titanium-mahogany-and-brass clubs endorsed by Tiger Woods or some other famous pro player. .

He’s got the funky shoes, too.

You know, those shoes that — at first glance — make you look like you have really bad taste. Then when you turn ’em over they’ve got spikes embedded in the soles. Sorta’ like a piranha.

Yep, piranha shoes, that’s what I call ’em.

Anyway, Chris has all these clubs and the piranha, er, golf shoes, and when he gets the chance he puts his pointy shoes on and spends a Saturday afternoon on the back nine at some golf course.

He takes his clubs and totes them all over creation. He says it’s him against the ball. He says it’s the perfect blend of science and sport. He says it’s fun. He’s nuts.

Recently, Chris invited me to play. “Come on, Uncle Scott,” he said. “You’ll have a blast.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. I know as much about golf as I do the chaos theory of mathematics: And I don’t see a whole lot of difference in the two.”

Chris persisted. “Aww, come on. You like being outside. Besides we don’t do enough stuff together.”

I protested. I complained. I tried to weasel out using the “other commitments” argument. I helped him pack the car.