You're playing what??

When John announced he'd be playing from the white tees, I pulled his shoulder back to look straight into his eyes and repeated what he said: "You're going to play from the white tees—you know, white: the color of snow, milk, clouds, and guys named Sven.” He nodded with a nonchalance I hadn't seen since my early Sierra Meadows days.  



(I noticed on the first tee that the lower-back injury I acquired on Saturday's Rotary gig was as present and insistent as ever. I told John my back swing was attacking me with sharp pangs that reminded me of that time as a child when I tried making a grilled-cheese sandwich in the toaster. Upon realizing the melted cheese was not going to come off with the bread and fearing my mother’s retribution, I tried getting it out with a butter knife. The shock was debilitating and found me across the kitchen floor looking up at the silver box, which, if it could talk, would surely have said, "You dumb shit." Every back swing threatened—a milder version, of course, but still shocking. I told John, whose compassion, of course, is infamous: "Sucks to be you!" I nodded—it was true; what the hell could I say? By the way, my mother, who had the good sense to unplug the toaster, mimicked the toaster verbally.)



I'm sharing the cart with John "I'll never chip again" Wade, and he's beginning to have one of those days. You know the kind, when everything seems to agree: the swing, the aim, the distance, the speed on the greens. Now he's narrating: "You know, if I par this hole I get two strokes …"  Meanwhile, I can hardly tee the ball or remove it from the cup. "And if I can reach this next hole in two …"  (He's too big to choke; besides Bambi would never forgive me.) "John, you hear what Coach just said? We're hitting into a wind." John looks up and checks the tree tops, licks his pointer finger, and raises it. He nods and then says, "I hit a low ball, Raggio. The wind doesn't really bother me. Besides, on this hole, if I can …"  I jump from the cart to tee up my ball and the 120-volt nerve in my lower back goes apeshit; now I'm bent over so far all I can see is shoelace. John, without batting an eye, says, “That's about how tall Wayne is.” He exits the cart and heads to the tee.  



John shoots 49 on the front. On the way up to the tenth tee, I'm having issues just steering. In the meantime, John has pulled out his golf diary where he has all the dates he shot 49 on the front, and he's explaining those early rounds, who he played with, what brand of ball, the number, and if The Gal had showed up that day. He shows me penciled-in coyote ears that indicated whether she showed up on that day. "I thought you'd appreciate that, Raggio." I nod, but that was not a smile on my face—it was a wince. John smiled back.



I must say that the following nine holes, pre-narrated or not, were a pleasure to watch. Zolar shots, accurate distance, and consistent putting left John with a 44 on the back; 93 for the day!   



Fred and Ed were as happy and surprised as I was. John was positive throughout, and frankly I never saw the man smile so much. Even when I doubled over on 15 and couldn't get up, John was nice enough to come over and point out that his drive made the fairway! I nodded and tried a thumbs-up through my seizure. 



There is something special about watching a man revisit a past heyday. The walk seems more youthful, the smile a bit broader and more frequent. Today was John's day, and, all kidding aside, seeing him play and anticipate (not dread) his next shot was awesome! Kudos, Fireman!