Range Finders (or How I Learned my Limitations)

The following is all about destinations, and a fair amount of jealousy. For some (Fred and Coach), looking through their Range Finder is a portal to the future. X number of yards determines their choice of club. Verification comes with a nod if they’re playing together, or an announcement to those nearby about the distance that awaits the flight of their ball. “Fred says it’s 138 yards; I’ll use a 7 iron …” I nod, knowing that the odds of his orb hitting the green are at least four times as great as mine, even though we’re sharing the same distance. His fluid swing now spent, the ball is not only headed in the right direction but has what appears to be the right trajectory/distance. Now it’s my turn. I’m thinking, okay, 138 yards, downhill, wind coming from left to right, blue pin, and damn, the property taxes were dear this year! 

My “swing,” which even on the back portion is beginning to feel like a flail, pounds the fairway so hard a divot the size of Rhode Island goes further than the ball. I look down at the scraped earth and see a gathering of Lilliputians around it, mourning a passed resident. I look back over at Fred, who says, “A bit fast ...” Denny is looking down at his feet, not wanting to make eye contact. I suddenly feel like a Morlock from “The Time Machine.” I step off the 138 original distance to my ball and I’m left with 125 yards. I take a practice swing Couples would envy and actually hit the ball in the area of the green (area, not on). I think I can hear the collective sighs from my teammates. And the obligatory, “Chip and a putt” is recited to my right somewhere—I nod in agreement, not actually believing it for a second, though I have to admit it’s a nonfiction possibility.  

Christmas has brought me a Bush-something range finder; I’ve been practicing on the trees that once lined a fairway outside my back yard. It occurs to me I might very well be teaching this instrument that the distance to trees trumps anything green and flat, housing a flag. But I’m sure it’s just my vivid imagination. I was thinking that these range finders should be like alcohol: you have to be a certain age (handicap) to own, use, or make distance announcements. 

It also occurs to me that there is a certain amount of pure arrogance for someone of my dis-caliber even to suggest that knowing the distance will encourage any scintilla of a successful swing! I know, I’m sure, positive—the first time I use this … this thing on the course, I will look into the view finder only to read a line crossing the view saying, “Who the hell are you kidding, Raggio?” and then it will emit canned laughter so loud anyone within 200 yards will hear it!

Bush-this.

Life’s a guess and so are my irons!

Stayin' alive with 805!

The bubbles from my freshly poured 805 rush from some invisible point at the bottom of my tall glass only to disappear in the awaiting head.  Don Ho and cheap champagne come to mind until I tilt the brew and let it wash over my tongue and tempt my mouth with a familiar blend of tease and ease. 

g

p.s. Post 805: 120/67  

9 has gone equine: sorta

These wonderful sculptures now adorn the fairway to the right of hole #9...

Sherpa Golf!

Thursday Golf

Frost delay: high 20s … duh!  

The backup looks like a base camp with Sherpas separated into fours, blowing smoke into their hands, crossed arms patting the padding to keep the circulation going, bodies tilting back and forth to keep their legs from revolting. 

And now the introduction of wind applies another measure of misery—and/or excuse.

Heard today on the course:

"You ever notice that watching Raggio playing golf is like watching someone falling off a ladder?"

"Ladder?! Scaffold!"

"He calls his driver Feast or Famine.”

"That driver hasn't seen a meal in months!”

They might at least have whispered it!

Dick reminded me today of his comment on drinking: "I drink for effect!"  Love that man (now that I have my 805 back!).

My Phelps lesson paid dividends today: While not on every drive, some, when I remembered the comment, were smile-makers.  Fred: YOUR FAULT, THANK YOU!

Lyle was back, good to see him; the temperature difference between Oahu and base camp clearly angered his hat.

For those who celebrate Christmas, have a happy one or merry one, or whatever they say. I would say Bah Humbug, but apparently that is no longer p.c.  So until Tuesday, I'm going to be either Jewish or a Jehovah’s Witness! (Just kiddin’!)

805 is back on the menu!!!

No more rules about O'Doul's,  805 is back on tap!

Twosome shoots double century - 205 combined!

It was Coach and Raggio. Might as well have been Heckle and Jeckle ... Without a soul in sight, back or forward, the two played some of the worst golf “played” in years—even the coots turned their collective heads. By the time they got to the cafe,  the waiters were already whispering! Coors and O'Doul's! There was no deserving an 805—they were told not to even ask …

Excuses:  Wind:not! Temp(70):not! Drugs or Alcohol:not! Zombie interference:not!

12-15-17- R.I.P.!

When a Scramble isn't a Gamble!

When Alan is "on" and he happens to be your partner, and you happen to be playing in a "Scramble" format, the game is, "What wedge should I use?" I know Sam knew, no matter how far we might have driven the ball, Alan's drive (if driven reasonably straight—which his were on this date) would give us a massive advantage over our opponents. Not an ounce of braggart in the man, he reminds me of Mantle after a prodigious home run—head down, rounding the bases, almost embarrassed by the distance. Alan, after confirming the flight, has already bent down to pick up his tee; the small smile might grow wider if you bow to him as he walks to his cart. Time after time, Sam and I just shook our heads and/or bit our bottom lips. On the par 5 16th, after hitting a drive well inside the 200-yard marker, Sam and I hit 3-woods that would come up short. Alan's 3-iron gave us Eagle putts … and it went like that nearly the whole day.  

Recommendations from the others after the game—that Alan play left-handed or blindfolded—while understood, will not become reality! 

Typical Monday...

Coach with his sciatica, Phelps with his bad knee/toe, Riva and Raggio suffering on and off with a bad lower-left back, Wade and his wrists, Lyle with his bad hat ... The list goes on and on. We should seriously consider renaming the club: The Inevitables!!

Hole #3: Coach pulls out his new range finder and announces, "It's exactly 134.3 yards to the pin." Phelps digs deep in his bag, takes out a sextant, and adds, "And three inches." Coach nods—Wade slaps his head so hard he begins to wobble and I've bitten into my bottom lip so hard I can't stop the bleeding. Damn aspirin!

Truism

5150 Golf

The Health and Safety Code offers an option to cops and docs, when they come across a mentally challenged individual or if they even suspect it, to “5150” them, which means to place them on a 24-hour hold for a psych evaluation. There are three different evaluations, and the person must meet at least one of the conditions:

1.  Pose a danger to one’s self

2.  Pose a danger to others

3.  Be gravely disabled

When after nine holes Riva’s score was 51 and mine 50, we both had a good laugh at the connotation.

I realized after a moment, it wasn’t funny: my game is a danger to me, and to others, and it is past gravely disabled! Riva notices the frown and shrugs; we’re playing for a beer and the game is very close. Of course, he’s playing for a real beer and I’m playing for the faux beer: O’Doul’s. 
We’re standing on the corner in Winslow Arizona … Okay, stop there, Raggio—refocus. We’re standing on the 15^th tee when we see the gal chasing a ground squirrel. I whistle; she stops in her tracks and comes trotting over. She's less antsy than the last time we saw her. All I have is half of a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. I take my last small bite as she rolls her eyes. I toss a piece and she gratefully downs it, another and she’s scraping her front paws in anticipation. I toss the last piece and wave her off; she’s “trained” enough to know when it’s time to let me return to my misery. Halfway down the fairway, I look back and from all angles coyotes are closing in on her: her no-longer-pup pups … They knock her over and she jumps up to attack. They become submissive, only to “attack” again. She’s rolling over, they’re jumping and rolling over—for no reason at all, or maybe for all the reasons there are …

(Riva bought the “beer” but only by a stroke. We never waited; the joint was empty and about 68 degrees. It was, as Riva put it, “A perfect day to spoil it.”)

12/7/17 Swings and Things

The gal...

...is back. After 3 weeks she finally showed up on #12. She was much much more cautious, didn't get anywhere near as close as we're accustomed to her coming- her coat was full and she appeared healthy.  Two fig newtons and a half of a bologna/mayo on white and she was off!  

For cause?

The only thing that truly frightens me is irony.

g

Von’s (Safeway)

Von’s in December: I can hear the echo of coughing three aisles away, someone’s nose blowing—so much sneezing it sounds like a trap-shooting contest. People holding Kleenex up to their noses … I see my reflection in the freezer door: I’m Tony Randall. 

Only happens in Von’s—in Raley’s, I’m once again Clark Gable.