My turn: What happens in Clovis stays in Clovis

On Thursday, I turned 29 again. Now comes the annual trauma of dreading the big 3-0.

Brain cells are disappearing fast.

Until I received her card, I forgot it was my twin sister’s birthday. I thought the green cake at work was for Earth Day.

Buddies Doc Elder, John Kirby and Mike Maguire eased the trauma by treating me to 18 holes at Clovis’ ritzy Chaparral Country Club. The dogleg trees, hills, bunkers and water made putting from farther than 80 yards a challenge.

At our regular Clovis Municipal, I have two-putted from 150 yards, and teed off on par 3s with a putter.

I am a club pro’s worst nightmare. Before my etiquette-challenged intrusion, my buddies considered fairway putting the exclusive domain of duffers. Now, they unholster it from Hail-Mary distance.

John has made me promise I won’t confess our putting sins to Clovis Municipal pros Charlie, Jimmy, Josh and Larry. Doc and Mike have sworn me to secrecy from Portales Country Clubbers buying 19th-hole refreshments at Allsup’s — while I pick up milk.

I guess what happens in Clovis, stays in Clovis.