There is nothing better than when I sit on my couch with my father and my brother and watch golf. How typical this ritual is for a sunday, it justs reminds me that I am home. It is usually silent, and my mother is usually there trying to understand what is going on, who is who, and when people should clap or not. My brother is lying on the couch, taking up as much room as possible, laughing at Phil Mickelson, or Dustin Johnson, whoever is doing bad at that exact moment. My father, silent, except for the occasional snoring coming from the far left of the couch, as his snores wake him up. (I don't know how he does it, I swear this man can not watch a full match, game or whatnot without falling asleep, yet he can restate to you everything that happened if you ask.) And then there is me, sitting usually cross-legged in the middle of my couch (awkwardly) on my computer, or with my cell phone in hand and trying to contribute to the little golf-talk that is going on--attempting to expand my knowledge of the game. There is not much to this sunday tradition, but all I can say, is that for me, its home.
-Alli
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