Eagle in the clouds...

When your game has gone to shit!

Friday I lost seven balls. Lost seven balls! You can’t hide the fact that you’ve lost a ball when you’re playing with witnesses! Just how embarrassing and frustrating is it when they have to disconnect from their game to assist you in finding your ball—or, in my case, yet another ball! I mean, you can only talk about how great the weather is on a few tees; after that, you get “the stare”—the one that says (silently), “Yeah, Raggio, we already agreed on that four tees ago, are you turning into the Rain Man?”  Don’t you just love standing over your ball, not having one clue which direction it will go, land, end up? It’s like that experimental recipe she’s been working on all day and wants you to taste—at least that’s 50/50!

My game has gone to shit.

I’m over the ball and I suddenly realize I’m looking down at a future orphan. I have about as much confidence in my backswing as I do with what comes after. I’m hearing the encouraging remarks and I figure half of them are for me and the other half are hoping they don’t have to play Lewis and Clark again. No confidence means no “real swing,” and thus the ball is acting like it’s part of a prison break. I cop a stare at the others as I pick up my tee. They’re both checking to see if their shoes are tied. Weak smiles follow. I want to grab Lyle by the throat and yell, “What kind of friend hits it down the fucking middle every time?!”

My game has gone to shit.

Doubts arise about my pre-retirement plan to “get good at the game” again. Maybe it was a mistake: tennis was an option, as were adult baseball, writing, hiking, and becoming a monk in Argentina! I can so see the ricochet to pickle ball, poker, and any participation without humiliation!

I have purchased cheap golf balls. Told them up front, “It’s every man for himself; I’m not even going to look for you guys—write your wills now.”

I’m over my orb on the second hole pretending I’m ignoring the water when I suddenly see my ball sinking in the water past a guy named Mike Nelson. Now I can’t get Sea Hunt out of my head. I step off the ball as if there was some purpose for it, I check the wind, waggle the club, and sink a new ball for some bass to harass. I could take the incredulous stance and stare, look back at the others as if with disbelief—but I couldn’t keep a straight face if I tried.

My game has gone to shit.

I could blame it on a myriad of maladies—hand, back, foot, age, lack of sleep, wheat toast—but it would be a disingenuous effort. “Raggio, you need some range time.” Range time is like taking a rubber mallet and whacking yourself in the head until you’ve forgotten why you’re doing it. And I hear, “You should go see Mike.” A lesson with Mike is two-hour aspirin for a four-hour headache; it works if you have the ability to retain the information. At my age, the only thing I'm retaining is reflux. Gee, I wonder why I’m not in skins!!! And I know a future team that would love to have Quasimodo as a teammate! I’d rather play in more scrambles, where at least I’d have three other chances to make the fairway!

My game has gone to shit …

Something wicked this way comes …

Hole Five (Par 5) before it was opened.

"It" will lie in wait. Ducks and geese will treat it like an ordinary pond. Perhaps it will be stocked with bass before it is involuntarily stocked with Titleists, Taylors, and the like.

If you’re fortunate enough to have a third shot that requires a generous loft, then the only fear will be the intimidation of the view before you. But, as FDR said—tsk tsk—“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” NO SHIT, FRANKLIN!

Try to ignore the tightening of the grip, the limited backswing and the left-to-right breeze; after all, it’s only 120 yards!

The other wicked adventure that might await is the poor drive or missed-hit second shot, which leave the player a 150- to 175-yard shot. Given the angle of the target, it might look very much like a giant discarded green thong with about as much depth! But fear not: There is, of course, the “layup.” Just thinking about it will begin to shrink your ’nads as those players around you look away and pretend they understand. Better to be a safe scorer than an embarrassed near-hero.

As if the visual was not enough, there is a sloping green for yet another opportunity to be menaced. Hitting the wrong side of the green will most certainly have its punishments. You’ll say, out loud, “I should have hit it over there.” Everyone will nod in agreement and think, “You’re fucking lucky to have hit the green at all, Raggio!”

Oh, one more thing, as if the list isn’t long enough: There are traps! And we all know how traps are. Sometimes they require a splash and sometimes an explosion. Can’t wait to see those thin shots and hear that wonderful ploosh sound as the ball clears the green and hits the water.  

“Hey, Coach, where do I hit from now?”

Food hoarder disorder

I don’t eat leftovers. My wife thinks she does, but in fact, she only collects leftovers. All leftovers. No portion is too small or insignificant not to be “Tuppered” (new word). I should have known, looking at her vast army of Tupperware early on, that there was an issue. I ignored the small voice in my head that whispered, “Danger Will Robinson, danger!”

Further warning came when, after one of our first dinners, I began to scrape the orts from my dish and she scolded me sharply. “Are you throwing that away?!”

I paused, looked down, looked up at her face, and finally said sarcastically, “I’m sorry, whatever was I thinking?” Imagine, I had already forced myself to eat two of the four Brussels sprouts on my plate. The idea of saving the last two little fuckers would never have crossed my mind. Vegetables are not my favorite food—so sue me.

I remember back then I thought the light had gone out in her fridge and then realized every shelf was packed with cartons, packages … and Tupperware. The light wasn’t out; the fridge was just so packed the light was useless! It was like looking into a miniature pre-dawn picture of Tokyo.

Saving a salad made a month earlier means to me there should be some couch-time consideration and maybe some good meds!  Nothing was dated (not that it would have made much of a difference to me). I don’t regard leftovers highly, but I was curious: What’s back there, back where the light illuminates itself? I looked both ways and began disassembling the tiny community before me. There was a light at the end of the shelf, and right next to it was a suspicious container with a slightly red tinge to the contents. I lifted the container and noted it seemed heavier than I thought it should be. The rubber top teased and dared my curiosity, and then it threatened my resolve about the whole matter. Suddenly I was Steve McQueen being chased through that supermarket by a massive mountain of breathing strawberry jelly anxious to consume me! Hey! Maybe that’s it! She’s afraid to open them! Yeah, that’s it!

That’s not it.

I quickly replaced and reassembled the condiment community, slammed the door, and found my back pressing against it. Part of me was actually waiting for some inner movement to indicate an effort to escape. 
So she’s hiding a food-hoarder disorder! Could be worse, right? Right??