Hydrating wit?

Riva turned down the music in the truck and paused; something relevant was obviously going to be pitched across his seat.  “You know, Raggio, your humor is getting drier and drier—some of the guys are actually hydrating before they come to the course.”  I pondered the statement that bordered on accusation and decided to play “surprised” as Riva once again drove up behind the car in front us, the shadow of his truck encompassing it, causing the driver to pull into the oncoming lane to let us by.

“I know not of what you speak,” I replied, feigning an innocence I’ve never owned.  

“Uh-huh, well, for example, when Wade started to say something and then stopped apologizing for ‘losing his train of thought’ and you replied, ‘No worries, I’m sure it was only a Lionel.’”

I again assessed the statement and realized while it could be interpreted as arrogance there is no way arrogance could survive on a golf course.  I am continually humbled on and off during my entire round; shank, top, fat, hook, slice, miss, chunk and myriad other demons await in every back swing! 

(Passing a truck at Mach 5)  

So what are my choices here? I talk to myself during a round (aloud and not) in an effort to regain what the years have stolen from me. I realize sometimes my partner will, out of respect, not tee off until I’ve applied a period to my silent, but obvious, ranting.  In an effort not to go too deep into the technique of the game and interfere with what I have convinced myself I have “conquered” in my game, I have narrowed my thinking like a nearly fully blocked artery to allow only free verse to escape.  

(Hard break, shoulder skid and sideways re-entry onto 41)

Hydrating … that’s pretty severe. I thought about the teams I play with and tried recalling the pungent darts that I involuntarily applied.

“You do know, if there wasn’t gravity, that slice could come back and kill you …”  Okay, that one was probably unnecessary.

How does one leave Phelps and Coach alone? Every shot is examined like a possible amputation is in the offing. I hate them (especially Fred, who is responsible for global warming and several incurable rashes) and Coach, who narrates his game like ESPN is following him around! Then there’s Denny, who clearly is softening us all up for that day when he contributes his $10, and who never feels guilty about taking a regular stipend from us!  And what about Sam, who in one moment has to reapply the top of his head and, in the next, makes some mind-blowing shot or putt, followed by a laughter and a saunter like he knew all along! And please, if there is a “wit” in the group, who can deny Dick has that crown? A whispered sentence and then the retroactive response that always seems to appear in one’s back swing! Let’s talk about Joe for a moment—the reincarnation of Mickey Mantle, he either sends a missile into someone’s yard or produces a monster drive his teammates go into shock about! John Wade: Mr. 89. It was the day he left “I can’t” behind … and did. All sympathy lost, John!  Lyle swings under that hat in a fashion and regularity that reminds me how much I miss the middle of the fairway. Using tools that the Smithsonian is salivating to acquire, how the hell can I leave that one alone? And finally Alan, who under that shirt must be wearing a large “S” because hitting the ball that far is not human. Mr. ET has been absent most of the summer because of his work on the fires—kudos to you, Al!

Riva skids to a stop in the lot and smiles, explains how he appreciates my humor… but there’s a silent “but” attached to the sentence. Wayne shows up and I realize I was about to say my mother had curtains exactly like his shirt. I bite my tongue and realize if I don’t say it, it will be in my head all day. I go over to the dumpster and whisper it unseen.  I feel better until I see something else that warrants a comment.  It’s then I realize why we all “hydrate” with beer after the round, and the collection of thoughts I have about my game, my life and the direction of both—I call for another pitcher.

This is perhaps the best group of men I’ve had the pleasure to play with. They tolerate me and that’s no easy task, but it’s more than that.  And not just more because we slog through the same shit every round expecting more, accepting less. It’s more about the way we’ve accepted each other, and there is no circumstance that treads on that.  

(Riva drives just fine btw …)