... at the table

The first and the fifteenth of the month—the measure of the man, or one of those rare occasions when a man prefers that something so dear to him shrink in size.

I hear the voices talking about trending—when a score is recorded, what effect it will have on the handicap—and the braying in fear that it will lower the BBN (Burning Bush Numbers) and holes will be lost, making skins more difficult.

All the while, our handicap leader, Lyle “The Hat” Bradley, sits content to listen, quiet about his game that day (unless of course it has left the tracks and he has blown into the 90s, where I live). His head is turning with the conversation; nodding and head-shaking abound. But nearly every toss back of his Ultra finds him centered and focused on the brew and company.

Every time I looked back yesterday, I saw him in the middle of the fairway, striking the ball with a consistent short swing and clearly without any fear about rising or falling BBN, never talking about his game, what it will do, will not do. He knows no one really wants to listen or gives a shit about someone else’s trials and tribulations, or the last time they did this or that (though recounting a circumstances in the round is welcome fodder, and we all want hear those); Lyle just sits and takes another pull on his Ultra. It’s not confidence, not really—more modesty, knowing the fragility of the BBN.

Maybe he’s superstitious?

I stand over the ball in hope, in prayer. My “allowance” is much more generous than that of my counterparts. I’m just hoping that the score that ends on the 18th isn’t a sunburn I have to wear until the next round.

So this morning I anxiously acknowledged the email announcement with my handicap update, not really knowing the direction it might fall or rise. It stayed the same. Does anyone care?

NO. The belt loop remains the same, and eventually I’ll have to shave.

Our leader carries a 13—I just checked. I love playing with him, of course, regardless of the distance between our games. I just wish I didn’t feel like I was wearing a toga on the tee.