Helter Skelter Golf

It was one of those days when, after one hole, you decided/knew that no matter what you attempted, your swing would not agree to it. It had gone Benedict Arnold off the first tee and decided to “freelance” and pretend your arms were no longer attached to your body.

I announced to Coach and Fred that this would be a “practice” day, that I would not keep score, that I needed to “find my game, my swing.” The nods were weak and without understanding at first. In time, they both came to realize that the only thing missing in my cart was a robot saying, “Danger Will Robinson, Danger!”


Lost again in my own space! Who pulls the carrot? Who is the sadistic SOB that one week lets achievement permeate the game only to be ripped back like a bandaid being removed from a hairy chest? What did I do? What sin was it that drew the world back in revulsion, hands covering mouths and heads shaking in disapproval?


Meanwhile Fred’s and Coach’s swings are mimicking a goddamn pendulum! Fred is offering advice and I’m trying. Coach is not completely sure I am no longer armed, so he has decided to look at me like, “Yeah, I lost my cat once, too …”


So. I’ve decided: I must be shrinking. Oh, it’s nearly imperceptible, but it is happening. I can hear my voice rising an octave in the morning. My feet are not fitting my shoes—this explains it all! My clubs are no longer “fitted” right—I need to begin choking up on them! The shrinking will cost me a fortune in clothes. I’ll have to move my seat up in my new car every other day. Yeah, yeah, that’s it—I’m shrinking! I’m going to end up in a spider’s web with Vincent Price shaking his head, saying, “If only he had found his game!”


… and summer is just starting! 

A shot in the dark!

We've seen all kinds of shots: the miracle ricochet, the pond skipper, the tree keeper—and the list goes on. Here's an addition.

Coach is about 150 yards out on number 13. His drive, unfortunately, has ended up in the left rough, and a small oak tree blocks any reasonable shot. He either goes around the tree or over it, and the latter is not an option. He grabs his fairway wood and gives it all he has ...

Look carefully at the next set of pictures. You'll note on the tree a small hole. (I have enlarged it in the two pictures following this one.)

Now you can see it better ...

And now you can see it clearly!

Well, the ball came off his club like a bullet. I was able to track it until its abrupt stop, or entrance, into that small hole no wider than four inches! There was doubt among the duffers as to the veracity of my claim as I yelled, "It … it went into the hole!" Since no one saw a ricochet or heard the ball land anywhere else, an investigation clearly was in order. Coach, who has been known to go out on a limb for an errant ball, climbed the tree and peered in ...

"Yep, there it is," he said.

(Picture taken by Coach)

Hard to see, especially for us elders, but if you look really hard at the lower left, you can just make out a dull image of a ball! 

Just another golf story? You had to be there!

Coach climbing down ... What happens next can't possibly matter or compare; let’s leave it here ...

Sloooooooooooooooooooooooooooowwwwww play day

Coyote Crazy!

I know you must have seen the dead coyote on the shoulder before you entered the course yesterday. I bet you thought the same thing I did: it was The Gal. It was a depressing thought, but the body was so near where she had been last week on the first tee I figured it had to be her. I had brought a generous tub of last night’s corned beef for her and was about to dump it out on the hole when I decided maybe I was being premature. On the 10th tee, where I had originally met her, I scanned the area around the hole for any sign. Nothing. I was recalling her visits and her growing trust over the last two years, bringing her closer and closer with every donation Coach or I made. On a lark, I gave it my best Bronx whistle and stared. Nothing.


But on my second whistle … oh, my! She darted out from some 300 yards away and came running as she always had. She circled me as she always does, then waited for my contribution. The corned beef disappeared quickly. She seemed a bit wary on this occasion, and didn't come as close as usual (three or four feet). I believe it was the smile on my face that kept her suspicious; the game, after all, elicits more frowns than wide grins. She clearly had doubts about this fresh face. She followed me for a hole or two, and, while her presence didn't improve the state of my game, it elevated the cheeks on my face.


"Stop smiling, Raggio—you're frightening me!"  ~ Lyle

4/23/18 Swings:Lyle, Raggio and Joe

Who is this man??

Hint: sometimes he plays the red tees.

          Yep, air guitarist extraordinaire, John "Zorro" Wade at his wedding to Bambi!

Any Way the Wind Blows

There are four of us in the car driving to the course; Coach is piloting and displaying how he could let the car crash but doesn’t, and shows how (in real time and action) he stopped the car from a rear-end crash just in the nick of time. The Honda in front of us has wet himself, and Coach explains that it’s good for a car/man to “know his limitations” (too much Dirty Harry if you ask me). Sam is talking about the book he’s reading (I don’t even read instructions—why would I read something with more than one page?!). Fred is talking about the weather and how cool the temperature will be compared to previous days. I’m experiencing involuntary sphincter spasms as Coach is going through the litany of safety options he’s discovered on his Rav 4. Sam and Fred look up only when g-forces are pressuring their seat belts. Coach says, “Now, I’ve discovered if I let the wheel go completely …”

Arriving at the course we all exit, kiss the ground, and notice that Fred was correct about his assessment of the temperature and we’re all going semi-Sherpa once again.  The foursome in the car is the foursome on the course. On the first tee, Fred decides to add a caveat to his forecast: “Winds are predicted up to 30 mph today!” We begin examining the wind on the treetops and shrug, as it seems that, while there is wind, the course is “playable.”

Four holes later

Learning to lean and place your ball on a tee that is in fact at a 15-degree angle towards the wind to allow the ball to remain on the tee is interesting, but gets old quickly. It’s like watching someone play with Lincoln Logs—poorly. I watch Fred tee his ball up carefully and then watch his hat fly off his head as though it had been shot off by a sniper. I wait a moment after he hits his ball and say, “Nice drive—too bad it didn’t go as far as your hat; I’m sure someone in Clovis will turn it in!”

Some portions of this dialogue contain exaggeration.

Wednesday's Swings and Pics

                                                                                                                                                                 Coach

                                                                           Raggio

                                                                            Phelps

                                                               Coach:chipping practice

                                                                      16th Green

She...

...is absolutely beautiful! 

Not every golf course has a wild coyote that comes when you whistle!

I can't...

As I drove in with Wade, he was already in full complaint about his hands. (We all know the items that plague him and their discouraging effects.)


I suggested that he was going to have a really good game today, after his last duel with Eagle and his 91.

"Oh no, I don't have back-to-back good games."

"You were on that last game, Fireman!"

"I know!"


Mr. "I can't chip, putt, get the ball in the air, drive, make bacon the way I want, leap buildings in a single bound, climb Everest, hit a baseball 500 feet …" and the list goes on, is a man who takes full advantage of opportunity when it's offered. Many of his reactive reactions to failure that saw angry responses have ebbed and turned more philosophical, and there is even some understandable resignation. He battles with more maladies than most, so when he is on and all the parts are agreeing, it is nothing less than a pleasure to witness. He gets anxious and excited, forgets to take that practice swing because he feels he is righting a ship that doesn't often sail in his direction; he needs that pre-swing to rein in the enthusiasm and encourage what isn't always rote. He's a mathematician about his handicap and his score. He senses when potential is upon him, and frankly, when he's on offense, as he was the other day, he's Zorro, only taller.



I love watching this self-proclaimed underdog achieve and surpass—win, lose, or draw as a team—and when one of us is "killin’ it" it's better than anything on TV. It's live, it's real and it's one of ours. We all have our "Fairway Demons"—it’s the nature of the game—but every now and again when the golf gods are at intermission, we sneak in a good round. And we live for that day, that experience. The "music" follows us around until we're on the tee again, praying, hoping, and ready to swear.




Mr. 91 strikes again! You can!

Swings- Coach, Sam, Raggio and Wade!