Okay, so I knew the forecast was for rain, showers, low 40s, and high winds gusting up to 45 mph. Any normal person would simply pass and watch golf on TV, but I had paid the tournament fees a month ago. Besides, it was Monterey—Bayonet and Black Horse, for Christ’s sake!
I’m in the men’s room looking at myself in the mirror, asking, “Raggio, are you a man or a mouse?” I pause as if I were going to answer myself and finally say to the image, “You’re dressed like a Sherpa.” A guy comes in and I begin washing my hands. He’s got some new-tech lightweight sweater on. I ask him if that really keeps him warm. “Oh yeah, in fact …” He offers up the price, which is more than the two-day tournament fee, including skins! He says he’s also got battery-operated gloves that keep his hands warm.
I raise my eyebrows in false admiration and look down at the Dockers I bought at The Gap before this guy was a twinkle in his parents’ eyes. I decide to ride this one out, regardless.
I’m on my way to the range when I meet up with two of the players I’m scheduled to play with. One I know: Mike Best, the pro at my home course, Eagle Springs. He’s with his best friend, Mike. My partner is also named Mike. Three Mikes. Rod Serling has got to be giggling behind one of those cypress trees right now. The “new” Mike says, “Oh man, you’re gonna fucking freeze—you’re not even close to having enough on!”
It starts to drizzle, and new Mike raises his eyebrows in that “See what I mean?” look. I nod my head and walk back to my car where I do have a coat, one of those North Face jobs I bought years earlier in case I ever decided to go to Antarctica. I put it on and realize swinging in this will be a challenge; I head to the range to practice. I find myself grateful for Mike’s suggestion as the wind and some rain start pelting my face. By the time I get to the range, the wind is making the rain horizontal and striking my Gore-Tex so loud it’s turning the heads of the golfers on either side of my range mat. To my right is a young Black guy with a swing like liquid valium. To my left is a woman who isn’t hitting balls yet; she’s just measuring her swing and stretching—stretching areas, I might add, where the glue dried on me decades ago.
I try a couple swings and look down the line; I confirm I’m the only Sherpa at the range.
Every ball I hit (or try to hit), I top. I’m doing infield practice with no fielders! I finally exclaim aloud and loudly to all who can hear, “This range is broken!” I turn to Mr. Valium to my right, who just hit an iron 250 yards, and I add, “And it’s prejudiced!” He laughs and tells me even he couldn’t hit a ball with an overcoat on. I know he means well, but all I can say is, “I hope you get a rash.” He’s laughing so hard he has to hold himself up with his club.
The day was not stellar. No matter what I hit, the ball spun in the wind as if it were in a contest with Linda Blair. I finished with an even 100 and was damn proud of it!
