I have—we all have—become more the fair-weather golfers than the driver-driven d’Artagnans we once were. I do believe the weather (temperature, condition of the course, wind, fog, and cart paths) determines play. I was up in “Driver Discovery” territory (Hole 13, where Saint Ping was discovered by Coach) watering a tree, when nostalgia struck me: what was in my hand brought me back to age six! The cold is an evil agent without tact or conscience—clapping hands to stay warm, runny-nosed teammates half wanting the torture to be over and half wanting the next shot to be past “acceptable.”
Dick is explaining the difference between tubes and transistors to a head of romaine lettuce; it has the opposite effect hoped for.
Lyle is lamenting about having to wait for the day he can begin imbibing again, and is practicing slurring his words.
Alan is choosing an iron, while we all know he can get there with a 3-wood. Okay, so he thinks he needs the practice; in reality, we need much more!
Coach is narrating to the white tee marker about the wind, the mound, the purposeful slice he’ll produce, and the tournaments arriving soon that he and Fred will vie in.
Fred takes a “Fred” practice swing and complains about his numbing hands; we all wince and then roll our eyes as a laser leaves the tee.
John is bragging about how many rounds and movies he’s seen, to make an average of 16 cents for each pursuit.
Riva is assuring everyone it’s really him, as he shows up in yet another kind of truck with the same Twain Harte explanation for why he must return directly after collecting a skin. (Wayne thinks Riva works for the CIA.)
Speaking of Wayne, he recently accepted an award for consistently hitting the longest ball never to reach three feet in height.
Joe is in mid-backswing when he stops and asks me what my favorite Three Dog Night song is. I turn and say, “One is the Loneliest Number.” He walks back to the tee and mumbles something about not liking that one, and rips a missile down the middle, his whole body spinning through his swing. If he were an auger he’d be up to his neck right now!
Raggio is praying not to duck hook, but does. His throat is so full of backed-up excuses he nearly chokes on one.
Sam is examining the fairway as if an attack of Zulu warriors is imminent. The strike is perfect but takes an errant bounce. “That fucking Johnny Miller … If I ever meet …” His voice trails off as he peels off in his cart.
Sam’s whiplashed partner, Rich, arrives on the next tee, his head wiggling like one of those little head-shaking toys below a car’s rear window. Coach tells him what we all think: “Save the rehearsal for when you come home late without an excuse; just get up and hit it.” Some applause is heard and Coach smiles, winks, and says, “Okay, just hit it before we get old.”
Winter is the best excuse we have. We can use it as much as we need, but we can’t bullshit spring!
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