Toppings ...

Riva looks down the fairway, squinting his eyes in an obvious effort to concentrate. The walk to the teed orb is deliberate. Another threatening glance down the fairway (#16) and Riva initiates his back swing: he promptly tops it.  No one says anything. Topping the ball is like having the ice cream in your cone falling on your lap—everyone looks away as you awkwardly try to re-insert it. 

Raggio takes the tee, Lyle says something positive, and I confidently place my Taylor ball on the tee and nod my head to reassure him that my ball will soon be threatening the atmosphere. My backswing feels a bit fast and my ball skips down the fairway in the same fashion Riva’s ball did.

Lyle mutters something polite to both Riva and me.  He steps up and hits the ball directly down the middle of fairway, picks up his tee without ceremony, and we all head down to our second shots.  

As we go, I yell at Riva, “I bet I out-topped you!” to which Riva proudly responds, “I doubt it, Raggio!” We race down to the balls and begin arguing about who out-topped who.  Now, depending on the angle from which you make your judgment, it could theoretically go either way. Riva argues that his ball is closer to the middle of the fairway. I say, “We’re not talking accuracy here, Lefty, we’re talking distance!”

Lyle chimes in and says, “It might be a tie.” I spin around and say, “Who asked you, Lyle?” and Riva quickly adds, “Yeah, mind your own fairway!” (Whatever that means.) Lyle, now realizing we’re arguing over who topped the ball farthest, begins his giggle and it becomes LL (Lyle’s laughter). He hops in his cart and deliberately drives down the middle of fairway where his ball sits some 100-plus yards ahead of us.  

Now. Riva and I both wait for the other to hit. First one to hit concedes his ball was shorter. We stand there facing each other, arms crossed, until Lyle starts yelling obscenities. We, at the same time, address our balls and proceed to both top the balls again. Lyle’s head now rests on his arms attached to the steering wheel of his cart.

He exits his cart and yells"It's a scramble!" And then he screams, “805!”

And just like “Ollie Ollie Oxen Free,” the lefties are once again friends.

Over a pitcher and all the other king’s men, Lyle recounts, “Who topped who on hole #16?” I push my glass, Riva pushes his, I push my glass further, Riva …