Obvious Result
In the beginning of January, I was in a constant state of
Golf-Helter Skelter. My score could be anywhere inside a 15- to 20-stroke range
on any given day. I took it pretty well, and while I envied those who
could express their particular frustrations by issuing “Sputniks” and
club-burying hits on the earth, I confess to fearing that if I were to toss a
Sputnik, I might actually harm someone on the next fairway, or that I would bury
that wedge in my foot and go through the embarrassing 911 airship transfer to
the ER from the middle of a fairway.
I decided for the first time in my golf-life to get fitted and buy
the best I could, just to eliminate any doubt that it was my instruments, not
the song in my swing.
In this case, at this time, it was indeed the arrow.
I owe the play more to the fitting of the clubs than just the
clubs themselves. I’ve gained one full club on distance, and while it took
some time to get used to the sound and feel of a sweet-spot hit, now it has
become an expectation, albeit one not always met.
If scores be the litmus test of improvement, improvement has
followed AP1 Titleist irons.
One thing for sure has made for a smoother day: expectation has
arrived for a reason—and it’s been years!
Fake Blues?
This last year was not my best. There have been a lot more of the good ones, I admit, and I’m told I have more left (though the word “many” has been removed from the sentence, by whom I’m not sure).
It’s hard not to notice, as I grow ever more philosophical with the years, that we can get caught up in our own fake news, believing what we want to hear, even when no one is talking. We can’t walk up a staircase built on it, though we can miss a train made of it. Someone recently told me that I was looking rather distinguished, referring to the gray around my temple and above my ears. How nice to hear—yet absent/not absent is mention of the balding spot I comb my hair straight back over, if not to hide but at least to reduce its prominence.
The more “distinguished” I become, the more I’m aware of our self-protected existence within our own versions of fake news. Recently, at a round table of my peers, which included chicken wings, quesadillas, chicken tenders (that weren’t), and tiny hamburgers with a name that couldn’t be more unnecessary, the discussion inevitably turned to that personage I call The Moron—you can make your own guess. The fake news was being tossed like no salad in the history of lettuce. One table over, where the gray resided in similar places to my own, I half-listened, though at times there was no choice, as the Manchurian candidates’ rant rose in volume and sincerity, each reciting something like “Fox 14:1–11”—followed by high toasts, in some cases with the same quaff as my own. The real-life, high-stakes Super Bowl has been in play around us this past year and then some, with clear sides and network-channel weapons chosen and sworn to. Walter Cronkite is certainly not turning over in his grave; he’s waiting for the West German judge’s score on his mat routine!
I realize that some friends, certainly the ones seated one table over, will always resemble Richard Dreyfuss after he encounters an ET, will always have that sunburned side of their face disguising any features that might bring them back to normalcy for me. I keep wanting to say, what makes me feel that I’m so right? And what about the 1st Amendment?! Yet for some on both sides, it seems to be as clear as the reason they choose to sit or stand in the restroom (a distinction for men only).
All I know for sure is that after an 805, my blood pressure hovers around 110/71...that to me is my litmus, my "Burning Bush"!
Red Tease
The Red Tease (we all played from the women's tees—they're red)
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 mouth 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!” (We often give putts that roll up so close it's a given; legally we are supposed to tap it in, but this saves time. Coach is a big rules guy.)
Dick and I prayed Wade would not bury his putter in Coach’s 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! (A skin is where you play the hole better than everyone else and you're entitled to $, depending on how many other "skins" are awarded.)
The 18th was so “memorable” we didn’t fill in the scores until finally biting into small, spicy 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 casually announced their score. The wince didn’t go unnoticed—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 had 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 to hit the ball doesn’t improve your chances. I suggest when you’re in that downward spiral you lift yourself out or away by imagining 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 tees), but you gotta walk away with something!
I imagine those old Burma shave signs, strewn along the last three holes, reminding me that true spirit can be ignored when it’s poured!
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 sometimes involuntarily apply.
“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 …)
The Breakfast Round
Scramble [skram-buhl]
The Breakfast Round
Scramble [skram-buhl]
verb (used without object), scrambled, scrambling.
1. to climb or move quickly using one's hands and feet, as down a rough incline.
2. to compete or struggle with others for possession or gain: skins, cash, bragging rights, and of course 805!
The word “scramble” to me first conjures up eggs—served most often in that lazy format called “scrambled eggs.” However, there is as well another description of an ultra-scramble: The Breakfast Round! Not just the mere roiling of chicken embryos to accompany toast, but that round so rarely exercised on the fairways of golf-life—the one where each player equally metes out his best to preserve par and/or better yet, contribute subparence (new word). And so it was on January 18, 2018, that a threesome—threesome—did fashion such a round that the phrase “hamming and egging it” became The Breakfast Round!
So deft were these three that they recorded a 65—seven under par! John “make a dragon wanna retire” Wade, Allan “The Kryptonite Kid” Westlund, and Glenn “I’m gonna wear that hat no matter what” Raggio—the trio never saw bogey. They were the ultimate ham and eggers.
So deft were these three that they recorded a 65—seven under par! John “make a dragon wanna retire” Wade, Allan “The Kryptonite Kid” Westlund, and Glenn “I’m gonna wear that hat no matter what” Raggio—the trio never saw bogey. They were the ultimate ham and eggers.
John never said “never,” Allan never lost his tee, and Raggio never once looked for a place to admire his reflection!
Distance (as in size) didn’t come into play. Raggio’s duck hook and Westlund’s occasional “another county drive” left things to Wade, and he rose from the ashes of his self-proclaimed “I can’t play this game anymore” to step up and prove himself able!
So there it stands—7 under, a new record! Strategies are already being discussed, plans are being made, and Vegas is calculating odds!
Bravo, Dick! If we can do this once or twice a month and offer another group the opportunity to challenge The Breakfast Round, I believe we all benefit. Blindfolding Alan is not an option—nor is a paper bag—bad connotation there!
The Suavest of Swings
Teased about being “at fault” and occasionally referred to as “the old man,” Fred Phelps at 75 has more of a chance of shooting his age than nearly anyone in the group. Always tied to his partner in crime, Ed “Coach” Hart, the true connection is their determination. That said, Fred’s focus excels for that simple cause: perfection—not so much in the score (that’ll happen or not); it is his attention to every swing, chip, pitch, or putt.
Example:
Yesterday on the 17th tee, he accused himself of over-clubbing as the ball hit the deepest part of the green and crept up the slope to sit above the hole. The slope was, as we all know, behind the green—nearly impossible to stop. Wade and I salivated as the assurance of at least a bogie appeared to be a promise. The chip now made, the ball increased its speed and clearly was going to run off the green—however, in this case, the ball struck the pin exactly at its center and dived in the cup.
Here’s the rub:
The measure of surprise is defined by the person who struck it. Yes, it requires some luck and certainly expertise; however, the man who chipped it, the man whose smile actually had a portion of expectation to it, always has us at a disadvantage. Our backswings contain a portion of hope, and our expectations are that, if you’re an opponent, his execution will come up short, don’t count on it!
Getting "Fitted"
Frank measures my hands (notes they’re large for a man my size). I remind him of what that means, and he nods blankly and then measures my longest finger to my wrist, my hands to the floor, my shoe size, my hair color, my grades in college, and my ability to recite the Pledge of Allegiance backwards.
On the range it gets much more technical. We experiment with lofts and angles, shafts and weights, swing speed and finally my Zodiac sign. I tell Frank I’m a Capricorn and he scolds me for not telling him right off, then says, “Forget everything I’ve said, hinted, or suggested; you Capricorns are like that one spike you can’t get out of your shoe. Stock Titleist will do fine, good luck with those …” He walks off the range talking to himself about his time being wasted and why God made Capricorns in the first place, especially left-handed ones—and that’ll be $900 and an extra $100 for a wasted fitting!
Still. I’m excited about the new sticks. I have no expectations that they will improve my game; improvements are things you do to your house and the way you feel after a haircut—or should. Fact is, living up to “better” new irons only makes me think of that Shakespeare quote: “He’s thinks a shank behind every swing”—or something like that. I am one of those people who believes that I need to hide my new purchase from my current Callaway irons, lest they conspire in resentment. Superstition runs in my genes, or so say my results from that DNA thing, “23 and Me.”
I bit the bullet. My reasoning is that a falling Chinese space station might hit me when it “lands,” and my opportunity ever to make the purchase will be gone forever, or until my next life—though with my luck, I’ll come back as a divot!
Range Finders!
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!
Swingin' in the rain!
Checking the forecast several times a day, hoping for the sun-dry miracle to appear—reasonable temps and winds. Redefining “showers” against macho and the best excuse for absence. What would Monday include if passing were the choice?
Dick calls and, without saying it, challenges my fortitude: “Oh yeah, I’m there, man, nooooo problem.” (Lie.)
How many times over all the golf years (which own the same length as dog years) did I show up to prove my Driverhood (new word), only to stand there in a pouring rain looking at the other guys, asking, “Whose brilliant idea was this? I feel like a Sherpa in cleats!” And then there’s always that one guy who looks up and says, “It looks like it might be clearing!” This is the same guy who sees Mother Teresa in his toast. We all look up and take the sky apart in pieces—we’re screwed, because as you-know-who is my witness, someone will follow with, “Could be worse: we could be working!”
Which makes no sense when we’ve all been retired for at least 500 lost balls!
As Yoda would say, “Break me a fucking give!” (actual quote from The New Yorker)
Baby, it's cold outside!
Happy Birthday to Me!
The Suavest of Swings
Teased about being “at fault” and occasionally referred to as “the old man,” Fred Phelps at 75 has more of a chance of shooting his age than nearly anyone in the group. Always tied to his partner in crime, Ed “Coach” Hart, the true connection is their determination. That said, Fred’s focus excels for that simple cause: perfection—not so much in the score (that’ll happen or not); it is his attention to every swing, chip, pitch, or putt.
Example:
Yesterday on the 17th tee, he accused himself of over-clubbing as the ball hit the deepest part of the green and crept up the slope to sit above the hole. The slope was, as we all know, behind the green—nearly impossible to stop. Wade and I salivated as the assurance of at least a bogie appeared to be a promise. The chip now made, the ball increased its speed and clearly was going to run off the green—however, in this case, the ball struck the pin exactly at its center and dived in the cup.
Here’s the rub:
The measure of surprise is defined by the person who struck it. Yes, it requires some luck and certainly expertise; however, the man who chipped it, the man whose smile actually had a portion of expectation to it, always has us at a disadvantage. Our backswings contain a portion of hope, and our expectations are that, if you’re an opponent, his execution will come up short, don’t count on it!
Great birdie, Fred!
Getting "Fitted"
Frank measures my hands (notes they’re large for a man my size). I remind him of what that means, and he nods blankly and then measures my longest finger to my wrist, my hands to the floor, my shoe size, my hair color, my grades in college, and my ability to recite the Pledge of Allegiance backwards.
On the range it gets much more technical. We experiment with lofts and angles, shafts and weights, swing speed and finally my Zodiac sign. I tell Frank I’m a Capricorn and he scolds me for not telling him right off, then says, “Forget everything I’ve said, hinted, or suggested; you Capricorns are like that one spike you can’t get out of your shoe. Stock Titleist will do fine, good luck with those …” He walks off the range talking to himself about his time being wasted and why God made Capricorns in the first place, especially left-handed ones—and that’ll be $900 and an extra $100 for a wasted fitting!
Still. I’m excited about the new sticks. I have no expectations that they will improve my game; improvements are things you do to your house and the way you feel after a haircut—or should. Fact is, living up to “better” new irons only makes me think of that Shakespeare quote: “He’s thinks a shank behind every swing”—or something like that. I am one of those people who believes that I need to hide my new purchase from my current Callaway irons, lest they conspire in resentment. Superstition runs in my genes, or so say my results from that DNA thing, “23 and Me.”
I bit the bullet. My reasoning is that a falling Chinese space station might hit me when it “lands,” and my opportunity ever to make the purchase will be gone forever, or until my next life—though with my luck, I’ll come back as a divot!
Range Finders!
The following is all about 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!
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!
Swingin' in the rain!
Checking the forecast several times a day, hoping for the sun-dry miracle to appear—reasonable temps and winds. Redefining “showers” against macho and the best excuse for absence. What would Monday include if passing were the choice?
Dick calls and, without saying it, challenges my fortitude: “Oh yeah, I’m there, man, nooooo problem.” (Lie.)
How many times over all the golf years (which own the same length as dog years) did I show up to prove my Driverhood (new word), only to stand there in a pouring rain looking at the other guys, asking, “Whose brilliant idea was this? I feel like a Sherpa in cleats!” And then there’s always that one guy who looks up and says, “It looks like it might be clearing!” This is the same guy who sees Mother Teresa in his toast. We all look up and take the sky apart in pieces—we’re screwed, because as you-know-who is my witness, someone will follow with, “Could be worse: we could be working!”
Which makes no sense when we’ve all been retired for at least 500 lost balls!
As Yoda would say, “Break me a fucking give!” (actual quote from The New Yorker)
Baby, it's cold outside!
(What follows is mostly true.)
I’m sitting in the waiting room to get my blood drawn for my physical. My blood pressure was completely normal when I left the doctor’s exam room and she had commented on my fitness and weight gain and attitude. I’m thrilled—that is, until I overhear the two women next to me talking about the latest social no-no, faux pas, or where the line was crossed on the PC scale once again: the song (one of my favorites) “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” I can feel pressure building in my jaw, neck, and gums. What in the hell is wrong with the words or intent of the man’s side of this song, and where exactly is the insensitivity? She can get up and fucking leave anytime; she even says, “Well, maybe one more …” How do we know he didn’t save her from pneumonia?!
That song was written in 1944! The two women look at me; I’m flinching like I’m getting stung by a herd of wasps, and my squinting eyes challenge their raised eyebrows. I say, “No! You’re telling generations, literally generations, that they’ve been insensitive, overdosed on social novocain! What’s next? You keep telling people what they’ve done wrong over the decades or centuries and they just might rebel: the fucking cake is already baked—you can’t go back and tell them this was the way it was supposed to cook! You’re gonna get a lotta people mad and they might just elect a moron as the president of these un-United States!”
(Couple people nodding, and I’m feeling inspired, emboldened.)
“And another thing!” (I’m getting into my own rant.) “You want to talk sensitivity? What about those homeless pigeons that can’t land on all these statues?” (I see eyebrows raise, but I plod on.)
We have a colorful past; it’s the good, the bad, and the ugly. Nothing you intend to “heal” today is going to change yesterday’s fetid aromas. Tear down tenants and portals to the past and you miss a chance to shake your head and point a child towards an explanation and a lesson about what was.
(Back to the two ladies.) “Look, I admit, the guy was probably trying to get lucky.”
Two blushes on old faces, but a trim smile now on both. “AHA! I caught you! SHAME!”
“You like Dino?”
“Raggio? Mr. Raggio?” I raise my hand to the nurse and rise, singing a chorus of of Baby, It’s Cold Outside!
Happy Birthday to Me!
Will there be more levity
The year that I hit 70?
Will life be less kind
Than it was at 69?
I have all the sayings—
“Carpe diem,” “Time starts now”—
Wonderful sayings
But they don’t show how …
Will my game improve if I have the will?
Or will someone invent a golf-blue pill?
68 found me wanting; it wasn’t so great,
I found so much more was left on my plate.
A med for this, a med for that,
Numbers tell if I’m thin or fat.
My gray is growing like global warming—a fact?
If found a lie, will my hair grow back?
This aging really ain’t no joke,
What keeps on gaining is the weight of the yoke.
Still, I’m happy about wakin’ up,
Less likely to worry or apt to erupt.
I have my remote and my 805,
The hops-filled bubbly that keeps me alive.
I have my memories—I see them as I will,
Sure that 70 will add to the fill.
I wear a reminder 24 a day,
That nothing we can do changes yesterday …
I know I’ve had icing more than cake,
Someone’s been watching over Raggio’s fate.
Don't stop now, whoever you are—
I trust the way you've driven the car!
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