It happened on the 16th fairway, the sounds and
smells of a pitcher of 805 being poured suddenly permeated the senses. I asked Dick and Coach, after they stopped
Wade from throwing a rope over a large oak tree branch, if they caught the aroma.
Both paused, sniffed the air, and looked at each other- then with perfect
patronage nodded their head and allowed their mouths to leak a weak smile. It only got “worse” no, worse is not the word
“better” as we were putting out, Wade
missed a two-incher and Coach pointed accusingly and said, “That’s why we putt everything out”! Dick and I prayed Wade would not bury his
putter in Coaches gray matter, he didn’t.
Then Dick suddenly caught the scent: his included chicken wings. We
rushed to the 17th knowing our score was so atrocious it was
unnecessary to ask numbers- in fact after the front nine it was clear it was every skin for himself!
The 18th was so “memorable” we didn’t fill in the
scores until finally biting into small spices pieces of chicken begging to be
washed down with 805.
Dick covered our scorecard with a napkin and placed the salt
and pepper shakers atop the napkin. We
all nodded a tiny nod scolded the waiter when he attempted to remove the
napkin. “Do you need that hand”, Wade
asked. The waiter literally backed off, bowed and was absent during most of
what followed.
The first brew did soften things, conversations included;
fishing, camping, bowling, darts and a girl named Lucille. An hour later our competition strode in,
Alan’s tanned face confident, sat down and causally announced their score. The winced didn’t go un-noticed- but then of
course we expected to be obliterated, what we didn’t expect was to be atomized
as well. Joe, Fred and Lyle all looked like they just had great sex and wanted
cigarettes.
Look, red tees, white tees or blues… if the game ain’t
there, it ain’t. And predicting how
you’re NOT going hit the ball doesn’t improve your chances. I suggest when you’re in that downward spiral
you lift yourself out or away with imaging that first great sip of Pinot,
cleavage, that time when the Chippy let you go with a warning or that one good shot
you had during the round- of course it won’t camouflage your 126 score (from
the Red Tee’s) but you gotta walk away with something!
I imagine those old Burma shave signs, myself. Strewn along
the last 3 holes reminding me true spirit can be ignored when it’s poured!
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