Shank you. Shank you very much.

We've all been there

We got you, Brett Maher.

All of us who have stood over a 3-foot putt, stared at the golf ball and seen the possessed kid in The Exorcist. . . anyone who has quaked at the free throw line in a tie game with zeroes on the clock and wished he’d been a bowler. . . any sports hack-scribe who inexplicably starts typing phrases such as “had went’’ and instantly hates his life. . .

We gotcha, brudda.

Maher place-kicks for the Dallas Cowboys. He missed four extra points Sunday night against Tampa. In a row. Right-right-left-doink. Like a drunken dancer tripping over one of his left feet.

We’ve all been there. Tell me you haven’t.

As far as I can tell, Yips was a term created for golfers who choke on short putts, because golf is a polite game and “Yips’’ sounds more polite than “choke.’’

In any sport, over-thinking is a bad thing. That’s why you see basketball players back away from the line and football coaches waste a timeout trying to ice a kicker. Which almost never works.

When Crash Davis said to Nuke LaLoosh, “Don’t think, Meat, you’ll hurt the ballclub,’’ Crash wasn’t pandering for a cheap laugh. He was trying to save Nuke’s mortal soul.

The Mayo Clinic defines the Yips as “involuntary wrist spasms.’’

“Focal dystonia,’’ according to Healthline.com, “a neurological condition (that) involves involuntary spasms that affect one body part. It’s often associated with repetitive movements.’’ Or, if you prefer,

“Performance anxiety. This causes psychological ‘choking’, or feeling extremely anxious about your athletic performance. The anxiety can be so intense that it disrupts your ability.’’

Where’s Dr. Ruth when you need her?

Here’s how I define it:

For a full year, I shanked green-side chip shots. I mean, I hit the suckers sideways. I squared the damned clubface, aligned myself with the target, brought the club back straight, low and slow and. . . hit the golf ball 90 degrees to the right. I aimed at 12 o’clock. The ball went to 3.

My playing partners looked at me like my dog just got run over.

I refused to believe I was a Yippy chipper. A Yipper. I was simply a very bad chipper. But there were times I wondered. It got to the point where the 54-degree wedge felt like a copperhead in my hands.

And then it stopped. For no reason I could fathom. To this day, even the thought of shanking a chip makes me weak in the cerebellum.

How bad was it for Brett Maher Sunday? NFL teams are allowed three footballs a game with which to kick. If they exceed three, they’ve got to borrow one from the other team. This is where we note that kickers are highly particular about the footballs they kick.

Maher’s first two tries sailed so far right, they evaded the net behind the goal posts. It was unnerving for me to watch, and I dislike the Cowboys from A to Zeke.

Cowboys special teams coordinator John Fassel said, “I believe in a hot hand and I believe in the yips. Absolutely. You’ll wonder sometimes how you get into the yips, and you wonder sometimes how you get back into the hot hand. I think it’s [to] keep stepping up to the line and shooting.”

Maher made 50 of his 53 extra points during the season. He was 29 of 32 on his field goal attempts, nine of 11 from 50-yards plus. Dallas QB Dak Presott called Maher “Money’’ after the game. Money Maher had went south Sunday night, though.

The Bengals own Money man has had his issues, too. Evan McPherson’s XP miss against Baltimore was his 4th of the year. It’s not the same. Money Mac has been dealing with a new snapper and holder. The Clark Harris-Kevin Huber nexus was as reliable as the old-school extra-point. Their timing, Harris’ snap and Huber’s spot were mostly impeccable, as were the kicks. Your Money isn’t Their Money.

But you never know, do you? Bernhard Langer admits to be Yipped his whole golf career, yet still won two Masters. Steve Blass stopped throwing strikes. Steve Sax couldn’t throw to 1st base. The catcher Mackey Sasser couldn’t throw the ball back to his pitcher.

Nuke LaLoosh made it to The Show, He didn’t have a great career. But he did have Susan Sarandon.

Now, then. . .

WHAT A DAY. . . yesterday, which I spent hitting golf balls at Hickory Woods, before spending a few hours by the Little Miami River, drinking pale ales at Little Miami Brewing with my pal Pogo. Pogo even brought me a Punch Gran Puro, which Joe Burrow and Joe Mixon will recognize as a pretty decent cigar.

BECAUSE TV IS MY LIFE. . . We just started watching Boardwalk Empire. I just finished reading Bourbon King, the Life and Crimes of George Remus (TML sez ckitout) which dealt with the same Prohibitious, Bootlegging, High Rolling Time.

Empire is very good. Great writing, compelling story. And the superb Steve (Why Do I Always Have to Be Mister Pink) Buscemi.

Finding this show was a godsend, given that TV at the moment is a sinkhole.

STICK TO SPORTS. . . It’s amusing now, seeing the yakking heads at CNN and MSNBC pretzel themselves declaring that Biden’s cache of secret documents was less egregioius than Trump’s cache of secret documents. While that might be true, please for once report the news before taking sides.

And I say that liking Trump as much as I like the Dallas Cowboys.

TUNE O’ THE DAY. . . I was not a Neil Diamond fan. Barry Manilow made me pray for earwax buildup. So it could be a little weird that I liked this guy. This tune in particular.

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