Incident at Bayonet

 

Okay, so I knew the forecast was for rain, showers, low 40s, and high winds gusting up to 45 mph. Any normal person would simply pass and watch golf on TV, but I had paid the tournament fees a month ago. Besides, it was Monterey—Bayonet and Black Horse, for Christ’s sake! 

I’m in the men’s room looking at myself in the mirror, asking, “Raggio, are you a man or a mouse?” I pause as if I were going to answer myself and finally say to the image, “You’re dressed like a Sherpa.” A guy comes in and I begin washing my hands. He’s got some new-tech lightweight sweater on. I ask him if that really keeps him warm. “Oh yeah, in fact …” He offers up the price, which is more than the two-day tournament fee, including skins! He says he’s also got battery-operated gloves that keep his hands warm.

I raise my eyebrows in false admiration and look down at the Dockers I bought at The Gap before this guy was a twinkle in his parents’ eyes. I decide to ride this one out, regardless.  

 

I’m on my way to the range when I meet up with two of the players I’m scheduled to play with. One I know: Mike Best, the pro at my home course, Eagle Springs. He’s with his best friend, Mike. My partner is also named Mike. Three Mikes. Rod Serling has got to be giggling behind one of those cypress trees right now. The “new” Mike says, “Oh man, you’re gonna fucking freeze—you’re not even close to having enough on!”

 It starts to drizzle, and new Mike raises his eyebrows in that “See what I mean?” look. I nod my head and walk back to my car where I do have a coat, one of those North Face jobs I bought years earlier in case I ever decided to go to Antarctica. I put it on and realize swinging in this will be a challenge; I head to the range to practice. I find myself grateful for Mike’s suggestion as the wind and some rain start pelting my face. By the time I get to the range, the wind is making the rain horizontal and striking my Gore-Tex so loud it’s turning the heads of the golfers on either side of my range mat. To my right is a young Black guy with a swing like liquid valium. To my left is a woman who isn’t hitting balls yet; she’s just measuring her swing and stretching—stretching areas, I might add, where the glue dried on me decades ago.

I try a couple swings and look down the line; I confirm I’m the only Sherpa at the range. 

 

Every ball I hit (or try to hit), I top. I’m doing infield practice with no fielders! I finally exclaim aloud and loudly to all who can hear, “This range is broken!” I turn to Mr. Valium to my right, who just hit an iron 250 yards, and I add, “And it’s prejudiced!” He laughs and tells me even he couldn’t hit a ball with an overcoat on. I know he means well, but all I can say is, “I hope you get a rash.” He’s laughing so hard he has to hold himself up with his club.

 

The day was not stellar. No matter what I hit, the ball spun in the wind as if it were in a contest with Linda Blair. I finished with an even 100 and was damn proud of it!

Jack on the tee!

 Okay, another "out of nowhere coffee rant”:

So for no reason at all, I suddenly recall meeting Jack LaLanne. I was at Black Lake Golf Course in the mid-’80s and I'm waiting for the first tee to clear (I'm on deck). I hear whispering and someone says, "That's Jack LaLanne!"

I'm curious, so I step through the small throng and see a guy on the tee using a driver that appears to be about two feet longer than it should be. He's wearing a t-shirt that is clearly nine sizes too small and pants so tight they reveal we have something in common—we both hang to the left (it's a guy thing). The lady I'm with is mesmerized and wants me to get his autograph. 

I turn to her and say, "The only reason I would approach that guy is if I needed to feel tall!" Of course he can do 4,000 pushups. He's got biceps like cantaloupes, and in pushup position he can't be more than two inches off the carpet! If he wasn't Jack LaLanne he'd be marching to "Whistle while you work"! 

I get a "Shhhhh… he can hear you," and I can't help but continue. Look, on the TV he must surround himself with midgets! You'd never know he can't reach the freezer! He must have been a fire hydrant in his past life!

Suddenly I get a, "Jeez, dude, what's your problem?" I turn around to the guy behind me and reply, "Hey, dude, this is the guy who makes me feel like shit because I can't do 300 one-finger pullups. Look at that, he can't even reach the pedals on the golf cart!" 

"He's a member here ..."

"Bet he only has to pay half the dues ’cause he's only ..."

"Stop it!" I recognize the voice and tell her I'm done, but I keep muttering. Wasn't a good round. I got to watch "Jack" on each tee doing handstands and one-arm pushups.

Of course, today he'd be declared "vertically challenged" and allowed to play Abe Lincoln on Netflix. 

I'm done. And yes, I feel better.

Your Humbugness!

(On my way out to drive to the course when "the voice" says...)

“You know, Larry has his lights up …”

There it was. The annual near-accusation of my Scroogeness! Larry has his lights up.

It’s not as though Larry spends hours and hours on a weekend strategically applying his Christmas lights along the ridges of his roof—“With artful intent and hazard risk, he doth dress his home to capture the spirit …”

NO!

His lights are already there. They’ve been there! They reside all year ’round tapping their little twinkle toes until he flips a switch! No fair! He flips a switch and he’s instantly “Mr. Yule”!

Now I get to a climb a ladder with a plastic smile and post-stroke vertigo that has never gone completely absent, so I can be free from hearing: “You know, Larry has his lights up.”

A true neighbor would wait and flip that switch on Christmas Eve. That way it would be too late for his neighbors to react. Nope.

Larry has his lights up.

I know, this happens every year and I should be prepared. How can this be a surprise every year?!

I’ll wave and give him a thumbs-up when I see him outside his lighted castle, raise my eyebrows, and nod in false approval. He’s too nice a man to hate, but sometimes I wish he were a baby harp seal and …

Next year I’ll preempt the “Larry has …” I’ll call him up and say, “Hey Bud, everything okay? I just put my lights up and don’t see yours. I know it’s August, but…”

Dry Joys and the Tarantula

 

Creatures on the course

 

Selections

Been a while between paragraphs.

It is a smoky Saturday morning, and my robe feels to ask for more use—who am I to ignore the request? Looking out over the meadow, there is little contention, save for the mock battles of blue jays and other feathered things—more a game of tag, methinks. In any case, they’re relentless and none seems to get hurt.

On the other hand, where roads collide and machines blare in the quiet, there is an uninterrupted and obvious anger, silent and not.

The signs neighbors used to post on their lawns are now dares and have become self-righteous declarations of degrees of patriotism. Most are just bait, I’m afraid, baited by a glass eye skillfully nurtured by the choice of a button on a remote. Neither choice’s side has patriotism in mind. It is about ratings and sponsors, fueled by whatever head-slapping lie or exaggeration can be offered to keep the “channel” connected.

There was a time when friends could disagree, when signs on a lawn weren’t even discussed as the coincidence of neighbors picking up the morning paper together never interrupted a morning smile or wave. And through the smoke of a BBQ, political protests usually lasted as long as it took to have a can or bottle opener tossed your way. Elections were not seen as a threat by any selection. And when existential fears were offered up by a side or sides, they somehow dissipated like the wrinkles below an iron, because we had memories of fairness and realities that always eventually pressed the button of conscience that never became too remote.

It is our life that is reality. Not a cause. Not a theory. Nothing threatens the very next moment; why should we believe some glass eye in our living room that tells us where our future seconds will land?

Now is the moment of happiness.

An unlikely happening ...

Par 4 tenth. Red tees. First drive yanked out of bounds. Second drive 10 inches from the hole ... Par!