Well, here it is May, and I still haven’t found my lost golf game.

I considered quitting this game a couple of years ago but allowed what I thought were concerned friends to talk me out of it. Now I’m wondering just what kind of “friends” those people were.

You’ve heard all the jokes, of course: “I’d quit this game if I didn’t have so many golf shirts.”

Or, “I’d quit this lousy game if I had anything else to do.”

Trust me, that last line is not one you want to use within earshot of the BW.

Well, I’ve got news for all you faithful fans out there. I played in a tournament last Saturday and I know for a fact that there are at least two people who read this column. Anyway, they claim they do, and I’m going to take those claims in good faith.

But back to the news: I am NOT quitting. I know that comes as disappointing news to anyone who’s played with me lately. But that’s just too bad. I’m NOT quitting. Instead, I’m seeking professional help.

What!? you say. The man with the swing that would make his mother cry is going to have someone who understands the game take a look at his swing and see if there’s anything left to work with? Dang right I am.

I have reached a point in my “career” where something has to give. Either I’m going to learn how to break 90 again or I’m going to quit … Wait a minute. Isn’t that where we came in?

If you’ve been one of the two ­faithful readers of this column, you know that my golf game has been on a serious decline for the past decade. I’ve gone from being a ­player who could have an occasional round of par to one who can’t break 90 on a par-3 track.

I’ve gone from hitting drives of 250 yards to dreaming of being able to hit one 180. I’ve gone from ­playing the blue tees at my home course to playing the silver ones. And I still can’t reach the par-4s in two shots.

It’s been so long since I’ve even placed in a tournament that I’ve run out of those neat foam cup coolers.

It’s so bad that I played in the Hospice Benefit tournament held at Scotch Meadows in Laurinburg the other day and I brought both of my $10 mulligans home with me. Never was in position to use either of them in 18 holes.

To tell you the truth, though, I may have discovered a little of what my problem is. I’ve played at Scotch Meadows, a delightful Donald Ross layout located south of Laurinburg just off U.S. 401 near the South Carolina state line at least a dozen times over the years, and I always give myself plenty of time to drive there from my home in Fayetteville.

It’s a simple drive: past Raeford, through Wagram, the bypass around Laurinburg, past St. Andrews College and take a left on Tartan Road to the course. Know that route like the back of my hand.

Well, this time I couldn’t ­remember the name or the location of Tartan Road. When I reached the South Carolina border and saw the McColl city limits, I figured maybe I had done something wrong. Turned around, drove all the way back to Laurinburg and saw nothing ­familiar. Turned around and drove back to the S.C. state line. Panicked. Stopped and asked directions. Went back down 401. Stopped again to ask directions. Finally got on a road that led to the course. Almost missed my plate of the famous barbecue and fried chicken. My teammates wished I had.

So maybe it’s more than just a physical thing here. Anyway, I’m getting professional help Monday. I would give you the name of the professional, but I hate to destroy his reputation.

If I break 90 the next time out, I’ll shout his name from the roof of The Pilot building on Pennsylvania Avenue.

Of course, if he’s smart he’ll wear a mask while he’s working with me. Just in case some of his members might be nearby.