Everyone has a different way of winding down after a round of golf. For pros like David Frost, it's with a glass of wine from their own cellars.
Nobody has quite figured out whether golf is recreation or religion. My best guess is that it's both. (My wife, on the other hand, thinks it's just a glorified outdoor board game, like Sorry! with sand traps.) The mystical aspects of golf are about as notorious as Gerald Ford's slice. The whispering of hushed-voiced commentators during Sunday PGA coverage, for example, works like an incantation on La-Z-Boy golfers everywhere, subliminally urging them to call in sick on Monday, dress in styleless white shoes, and head for the nearest links.

The last time I played golf was in a celebrity tournament in Sonoma, where I got stuck with a dawdling caddy whom I nicknamed "Lagger Vance." In spite of the delays, I racked up a score of eight over par in a field that included Tommy Smothers as well as a few well-known Sonoma winemakers who like to scoop divots when they're not busy squeezing the tannins out of Zinfandel. I admit I'm no Tiger Woods, but it wasn't an entirely bad performance for someone whose idea of a long drive is the one to his mailbox.

Wine is a lot like golf in some respects. It makes for great recreation (at least the way I drink it). Both wine and golf have their hallowed pilgrimage sites, too: Pebble Beach and St. Andrews for golf; Château Margaux and Romanée-Conti for wine. Some golfers actually retire to the cellar after the 18th hole, as these three bottles show.
Known as "The Great White Shark" for his imposing stature and