Coach’s Water Ball!

I think I can speak for most us when I say that dares, challenges, and risks have become events we would rather watch than participate in anymore. That is, of course, unless the challenge is a simple one, like having a second slice of pie, exploring channels, reading instructions … No, scratch that—I don’t like being told “how,” and certainly not in Chinese or French, or by that ridiculous image of a man actually acting out the fucking instructions. Alas, I digress …


So let’s get back to the challenge thing.


Hole 16:  Coach is not having a “Coach” day. I’m secretly loving it because he’s usually the Stagecoach and I’m usually his dust.  He slices his second shot and it appears to be a water ball. (See picture: see Raggio smile, see that the ball is half—if not more—in the pond, loosely supported by leaves, algae, grass, and frog shit.)

Coach examines the ball, and there is a hesitation, a pause. I sense a wild possibility. I look over at Sam and say, “I think it’s playable.” Coach does not see my eyes roll. Sam quickly agrees. (We think we’re talking him into something he’s already made up his mind about.)

By the way, I miss the old Sam; this philosophical Sam is playing way too well, pissing me off. I liked him better when he was playing dueling Sputniks with Dick! (More digression.)

Okay, so when I see that Coach has decided to go hero, I rush to get my camera. Unfortunately, it misbehaved, and for some reason recorded the event in super speed. I was, however, able to break down the film into the important frames.   

This is the ball. Notice the yellow contrast against the pond scum. I see the ball and think about the ponds that produce that flesh-eating disease there is no cure for. Coach does not see what I see.

                                Coach assessing his swing

Note the force of the splash. Note the tiny yellow orb exiting the water!  

Note the golfer being rained on by the various elements he has tossed into the air with the ball.

Now check out the way the pond is still absorbing falling drops of water, and the golfer (Coach) is hollering his success at the ball. He’s sopped. Sam and I are threatening to wet ourselves. You just have to admire a man who wouldn’t tap out wrestling Goliath!


P.S. The ball indeed left the pond and made it to the fairway. Had there been grownups watching, golf claps would have been generously furnished. Instead, the cackling pair next to him were drying their eyes!

Yosemite, do you ever notice?

There’s something very intimidating about Yosemite, and I’m not talking about the granite.

Again, I found myself feeling like a well-dressed pork rind with no place to skate. I’m standing at Degnan’s Café in the park, and I realize I’m the only one in this room who has only four pockets on there pants. I can’t for the life of me figure out what all those other pockets (shorts or not) could be for. I’m outnumbered. There must be a reason, actually several reasons. I count nine pockets on the pants next to me—are they even called pants?

I begin to feel a bit more alien as I check the footwear. I’m looking down at my “Just do it” Nikes and everyone else is wearing “We’ve already done it twice” boots.

And another thing: there is much too much “health” in this room. They’re all wearing that “I’ve been taking vitamin e since before birth” skin—you know, that health-store “tan” look where the only four-letter word they know is M-E-A-T? The uber-elderly couple next to me looks like they could have been on the Lewis and Clark expedition; they are arguing over which scone they should have with their water. The man has an item for every pocket on his short pants. (I have a bit of change in my left pocket.)


I want to buy that cinnamon donut, but I notice as I reach for it all the heads turn my way. I play with it for a while, making all those heads turn as I reach and retract, reach and retract. Finally the guy behind the counter clears his throat, smiles, and shakes his head. I can’t tell whether he wants me to stop orchestrating or he wants me not to go for the donut. I’m getting a little annoyed. I want to announce I’m going outside to start on my second pack of Marlboros since I woke up a few hours ago.

I don’t do it. I’m shamefully bathed in a pocket deficit I can never hope to fill.

Shadows from the oak on 16

The Tips at Quail Lodge

It starts on the range. Hope springs eternal on the range. I stretch, squat, twist, and take my practice swings. I’m ready for a relaxing round.

The Starter comes over and informs me the course is packed and we’ll have to play with another twosome. This does not make me happy. It certainly doesn’t make Sally happy; she plays two or three times a year and is undecided about which she dislikes more, golf or reflux.  She’s not happy about anyone witnessing her game. She’s a good sport, and I believe she looks upon these fairway outings as a responsibility to maintain the peace while burning calories.

From a distance I recognize the couple driving to the first tee. I had watched him on the range, hitting balls so high and far I was sure a few never came down. He was smooth and consistent; each deliberate swing seemed to mirror the last. I hated him immediately.

We drive over to the first tee, only to see Mr. Atmosphere’s ball already teed up on the black tees, the championship tees, the tips—the you-will-never-get-a-par-from-here tees.

 I wasn’t going to let it depress me; depression, after all, is supposed to come after the round.  

I notice he’s playing Taylor blades. I’m using irons advertised to be so forgiving you’d be forgiven if you were the guy behind the grassy knoll.

I’m tempted to ask his handicap, but I decide to go military: don’t ask, don’t tell.

Sally says, “Look how far away your white tees are from those!”

I say, “Yeah, normally distances like that involve passports.”

Which one is it, my ego, my masculinity, my game, my age—or is it that I can’t seem to clear my throat and I’m afraid when I introduce myself it’ll come out as if I just took a breath of helium?

I’m playing my mortgage payment and I’m going to get every yard’s worth! I’m not going to blink, I’m going to man up and pretend this is no big deal: John Wayne golf.

I introduce myself and look down at the fairway. I’m hoping I can reach the fairway from here, and then I notice he’s waiting to hit his ball because there is a foursome about 350 yards away. I can feel myself physically shrinking. So much for John Wayne golf; suddenly I’m a Lilliputian waiting for Gulliver to take a swing.

Finally the fairway is clear enough for Mr. Atmosphere to begin his game. He stands over the ball, looks down the fairway as if he pities it, and draws back his swing. It’s the range all over again: the ball has been ignited and I am prepared to see the second stage when suddenly I notice the ball veering right. The wind has made a choice—me!  His ball concedes to the wind and appears to go out of bounds. He stares at the point of exit and frowns. I say something encouraging I don’t mean, and promptly tee up my ball and hit it barely 200 yards—but at least I can see my ball!

And so it went. Golfers will congratulate anything if they don’t know your game and you hit a fair shot. And so it went.

Aside: So you know those courses where, on the second hole, they place a chest with pencils, scorecards, ball markers, and tees? Well, I open the chest and stare down at a zillion tees. Free tees—no sign that says, “Help yourself to a reasonable number of tees.” Sally comes over to see what I’m staring at. She whispers, “Don’t do it.” (How many tees would be $235 worth?) “Never crossed my mind,” I lie.  

On hole 12, the absurdity of the day arrives and reports directly to my ego and choice of tees. Par 3: 241 yards and into a generous wind. Gulliver hits his best drive of the day, comes up about 20 yards short. “Wow, I thought I hit that 3 wood perfectly,” he says.

I pull out my driver, prepared to go hernia if need be. I want to reach that green! My practice swings are making that high-pitched swishing sound, and the wind is helping the octave. 

I’m sure I’ve never looked so good topping a ball! Gulliver shrugs and Minnie Mouse tiptoes behind him. And so it went.

Tips … are for waiters!

           Hole 12    241 Yards (Can you see the people on the green?)

The clouds at Eagle

Juan on Juan at San Juan Oaks

                                        The wind blew west to east and the flags rarely rested. I suddenly remembered my last visit to Freddie Couple's experiment and how it tormented me. I needed sustenance.

                                                    My sustenance:   Fish and Chips.

          Shit, I forgot my headphones! Now I'm gonna have to listen to myself, talk to myself! Downwind, short and a generous fairway. I bogey it: bad chip!

                            Par 5 second hole, on in regulation. I miss the birdie putt but celebrate a par. The downwind drive went further than it deserved. I got lucky.

Dogleg right, should be perfect for my draw- it doesn't. I just made a shorter hole, longer. Hybrid 4 and I'm on the back of the green! (note the flag. wind wind wind) Two putt par.

The last downwind hole and I push it out to the left rough. I come up way short and yet another feeble chip comes up miserably short. I blast the next to Holister. Double bogey is whispering in my ears.

Raggio, you got the whole course to yourself. The only ones paying even half attention are those turkeys over there and they're only fractionally amused. Enjoy yourself!

I proceed to bogey the next short par 4 and I can feel the beginning of an eddy beginning. That downward spiral into an endless divot called "lost hope"

I can feel my hat signalling to my head it's insecure setting on my scalp.  I re-adjust the velcro and squint at the flag on hole six: Par 3. 169 yards on the card, and a giggling 174 from my range finder. Note in the picture how the wind is blowing left to right. I accidentally (though later I plan on saying it was intentional) hit ball too far left, way far left and too high. Nope. That wind brought my hybrid 4 back over like english on fungo bat! Bam! 10 feet from the pin. I did the whole "pro" thing. Looked at from this side, that side. Got down and stared the line. I marked the ball, cleaned it and aimed that logo at the line I wanted. (I never do that) One long breath, and I actually sunk it. Fist pump and I feel like I stole one.  This is what I drove up to ...

I proceed to bogey the next hole, Drive into the rough and then fat coming out. Still I was pretty cool on the last I tell myself.

 Hole 8 is a 150 yard par 3 into yet another category 1 wind. Five iron, cause my range finder says 145. I won't say anymore but check out the shot results.

Three foot bird, made and howled at!

The last hole is par 5 and I'm just off the green in three.  I chose putt instead of anything that chips. I miss but I didn't blow it past 20 feet. I tap in. 

I didn't survive the back very well at all. I had re-re-injured the hand and couldn't take full swings.

I'm coming back to this place. I enjoyed it, you usually do when you surprise yourself.

Obviously Laguna Seca was out of the question.... grrr                

The sweetbread tree nymph on #8

Honeymoon humor

My game of late has become a box of chocolates.  

Casper clouds

A place for fog

The edge of collected images seems to dull in the passage of time and daily distractions. It is in the silence where they beg to appear from back in the line. Tilted heads leaning to be seen to the side of the even administrations that only have one purpose and that are born to tunnel vision, they stand perfectly straight—perhaps necessarily, though they are, without any personality, solid colors. Clear. Obvious. Styrofoam.

Notes sing and the fingers back there in the line snap, heads nod, hips move, and words rise like a melodic phoenix to remind something in me that rhythm is the jukebox of the heart, so I sing to remind those tilted heads they’re not just in line, they offer a place for fog where the world softens in meaningful nostalgia, and they remind my feet they’re not just for shoes, for walking.

When Yonex Liked Me

There is an element of greed in golf.


We all look for that edge or answer, combination or epiphany, that will elevate our game and earn us more skins: the ego of the longest drive, that seemingly obedient shot that skips to within a half inch or drops in the hole, the two-armed bandit that retains the same element of risk and hope as a one-armed bandit.

In that search for “better,” when improvement is made and becomes practice, we find ourselves complaining about “losing holes” by reframing it as, “I don’t stroke here,” said with regret. And yet, it is the ultimate goal: to lower one’s handicap! Yes, dammit, I want it both ways!


In the late ’70s (Check that, mid '80s) I owned a Yonex driver. I learned to drive it 225-250 yards without challenge. It became a “Yawn-ex” driver. The fellows I played with used Titleist and occasionally out-drove me by 10-15 yards—occasionally. Occasionally whispered to me more than occasionally, and I made the switch to eliminate those whispering yards.

If my retired Yonex could talk, I’m sure it would have said, shaking its head, “You’re trading shoes for skates, shithead!”


The New Driver was an enigma. The cost, my ego, and my handicap insisted that I use it until that Rosetta Stone appeared; it never did. When I finally admitted, understood, that consistency and trust were paramount, it was too late. My Yonex was no longer interested in returning to the good ol’ days. Hooks, slices, and tops abounded. All the cute, inane golfisms were offered in every failed effort off the tee.

“I hope you now know, Raggio, it ain’t the arrow, it’s the Indian.” The only reason these people are still alive today is because I left my off-duty in the car!


I have seen in our group nearly everyone bury themselves, only to rise like a phoenix. Sam of late, Coach not that long ago, certainly Fred next—and I could go on to every one of us. Okay, so it’s cyclical, and I know in time improvement will rear its overdue head and last week’s “fuckin’ ugly” will become a concert in time.


This all reminds me of the guy who is curious about what would happen if he licked his finger and inserted it in a light socket. He shrugs, he licks, he inserts. Eyelashes singe and smoke, his hair rockets his hat off his head, every nerve in his body is screaming at triple fortissimo, his muscles become rocks begging for release, he’s wet himself and something else is threatening, his entire life passes in flashes. He finally falls back away from the socket. He lies there, gasping, the smell of burned hair and flesh an acrid reminder of near death. He’s able to pull himself up on one elbow and he glares at the socket. He licks his finger again …


Golf: the ultimate self-abuse!

Another storm... lost a big oak

Massive wind (50-60 mph via the weather site—I think it was much stronger). I saw a huge oak get blown over right below the house. Some interesting videos—nickel-size hail. This was the strongest wind I have ever experienced.

        After most of the storm passed the west sky was completely orange!

The Rattler on hole 17!

Rich hit his ball to the left of the 17th green.  He examined the sloping chip and exited the short rough. Exiting right behind him was this baby rattler! Clearly vigilance should extend, not only to the high grass,  but anywhere where grass might be above you ankles. 

This blackbird considered taking on the creeper but ultimately decided against it.

Sam!

Not the best front nine—and, make no mistake, there was a time when the lowered shoulder never rose. But the “Sam, Sam I Am” I saw today was mostly certainly a Phoenix.

His game left the scabbard on the back nine with towering bombs off the tee and laser irons clearly wanting part of the credit. A monster fairway wood into wind on twelve sliced through the wind and appeared actually to land on the upper tier where the blue flag resided. As the ball crept a hint back, the skulking white orb, ignoring the majesty and the mastery of the last shot, began a depressing descent back down from the top of the green and hurried in its shame, coming to rest in that familiar low-land portion where judging a putt to reach the pin often found one awaiting the embarrassing return for yet another effort.

He took it well. We all commiserated with him and shrugged that “Wanna-gonna-do” 40-50 feet of green. The ball came off the putter and we knew immediately that it would make the landing. Halfway, it was clear the ball might even be close. Normally on such a long putt, an intermission would be called for, but Sam would have none—swish! Pin left in, the ball never even tapped it. It fell into the cup like a napkin falling off one’s lap: silent, cocky, and conclusive. Birdie man spins and begins a small but growing laugh. We all shake our heads in amazement!

And so it went this day on this back nine. Sam shoots a one-over 37.  And we are all not a little surprised. Yeah, it’s been a while, but a few years ago, we wouldn’t have been surprised at all.

Welcome back, Sam—Retro Sam!

Remarkable shots on the 16th!

Sam is 92 yards out. He nearly holes his wedge shot, in fact for a moment we thought it was in the hole!  Phelps, not to be outdone, sends his monster chips tickling over half the hole. Both shots are smile-makers! And yes, they made their putts ...

                          By the way, Coach shot 48/38! 

It can happen to you!

Absent the Gratitude for Distance

It was a short search for my old Titleist 2 iron. It has sat unemployed for two to three decades, replaced of course with hybrid promises and more forgiving irons that bragged a higher number with similar distance. And so the ancient remedy for narrow fairways off the tee became just another forgotten implement in the haversacks that sat cobwebbed “over there” in my garage.

My recent set of injuries and my absence from games of golf have once again reaffirmed that staying at home with wishes and lawns to mow is my last choice on the menu. My small stack of books to read might be a temporary benefactor, save for the fact that three sentences into any page, I realize I’m moving the lines but retaining nothing. It’s Monday and I should be out there, with the guys, planting a tee and sending a white orb into who knows where, without a care.

Yoda (Phelps) offered up a stick-‘em pad applied to a painful area that offers relief (a hat should be made of one of these for those days when “something wicked this way comes”). Anyway, a trip to CVS and pads bought, brace for the hand to protect the thumb, and my search for a resentful two-iron completed, and I’m hopeful I can walk with a measure of dignity even if only occasionally on a fairway.

I’ll play with Wayne “The Hat” and Phelps, using only the relic off the tee, and I’ll try to stay out of the team’s way. Of course I ask if it’s okay, and they all respond with encouragement. And of course I know they’re all thinking they’d rather have to play wearing a fucking eye patch, but they don’t say it. My initial swing with the  two-iron is awkward as hell; first, it feels like I’m swinging a rake—the club feels way too long, and missing the sweet-spot brings back a memory of when I played with blades and it was painful to miss anything but the center of the face. The ball thankfully goes reasonably straight and lands on the fairway in an area I wouldn’t normally be grateful for. I am absent the gratitude for distance, and so it would continue throughout the round.

The interesting part of the day was the acceptance and resignation that even when I hit the dinosaur well (which was rare), I was more often than not having to request a follow-up strike. It was a different course, strategy, expectation. Although it would all be practice, I could feel the threat in my right hand at the very top of my swing and at the very end of it. It is impossible to relate, describe, or define what it feels like at full strength, but here’s an attempt:

1956. I am dumber than shoelaces. I figure I can make a grilled cheese sandwich by putting a slice of Kraft American cheese in the toaster with a slice of Kilpatrick’s white bread (hell, it was all white bread back then). I’m quite proud of myself until the smoke begins to flee from the toaster and the smell of smoke fills the kitchen. I stare into the bottom of the toaster and realize the cheese, which now looks like peanut butter, has successfully resisted my idea and clearly will not exit voluntarily. I find a butter knife and proceed to scrape, and suddenly I’m on the floor across the kitchen. My mother hears the incident and finds me splayed on the floor. It takes her about three seconds to assess the circumstances. Sixty-four years later I can vividly see her expression, which still reads: “I should find you a plastic bag to play with and just get it done with now!” And I also retained that shock, that nth degree of pain, that grabs every nerve ending and screams “Banzai!”

So. Aside from the pain, I have to endure the penalty of my mother’s look 64 years ago! I spend half the day trying to find more from a two-iron bought when Carter was president than it was originally expected to produce, until Lyle and Phelps both tell me, “You’re looking up.” Slower swing, staying with it longer, and resigning myself to one day only being able to hit my driver as far, I accept that I need to be grateful for the opportunity to be out on a beautiful day, playing with guys trying to score, and appreciating the last time I seriously used this fossil in my hand: I wore bell-bottom pants so tight you could see the mint mark on a dime in my pocket; boots; open, wide-neck shirt (no, scratch that, never did, hated those) and no chains; dated a girl named Irene, who, as pretty as she was, made me look as she walked away every time she did. But that’s another story, isn’t it?

Monday was golf, and I was present.

Monday 4/15/19 Wayne, Fred, Raggio and Bradley- some good, some bad, some ugly!

Monday swings: Lyle, Joe and Rich