Stayin' alive with 805!

The bubbles from my freshly poured 805 rush from some invisible point at the bottom of my tall glass only to disappear in the awaiting head.  Don Ho and cheap champagne come to mind until I tilt the brew and let it wash over my tongue and tempt my mouth with a familiar blend of tease and ease. 

g

p.s. Post 805: 120/67  

9 has gone equine: sorta

These wonderful sculptures now adorn the fairway to the right of hole #9...

Sherpa Golf!

Thursday Golf

Frost delay: high 20s … duh!  

The backup looks like a base camp with Sherpas separated into fours, blowing smoke into their hands, crossed arms patting the padding to keep the circulation going, bodies tilting back and forth to keep their legs from revolting. 

And now the introduction of wind applies another measure of misery—and/or excuse.

Heard today on the course:

"You ever notice that watching Raggio playing golf is like watching someone falling off a ladder?"

"Ladder?! Scaffold!"

"He calls his driver Feast or Famine.”

"That driver hasn't seen a meal in months!”

They might at least have whispered it!

Dick reminded me today of his comment on drinking: "I drink for effect!"  Love that man (now that I have my 805 back!).

My Phelps lesson paid dividends today: While not on every drive, some, when I remembered the comment, were smile-makers.  Fred: YOUR FAULT, THANK YOU!

Lyle was back, good to see him; the temperature difference between Oahu and base camp clearly angered his hat.

For those who celebrate Christmas, have a happy one or merry one, or whatever they say. I would say Bah Humbug, but apparently that is no longer p.c.  So until Tuesday, I'm going to be either Jewish or a Jehovah’s Witness! (Just kiddin’!)

805 is back on the menu!!!

No more rules about O'Doul's,  805 is back on tap!

Twosome shoots double century - 205 combined!

It was Coach and Raggio. Might as well have been Heckle and Jeckle ... Without a soul in sight, back or forward, the two played some of the worst golf “played” in years—even the coots turned their collective heads. By the time they got to the cafe,  the waiters were already whispering! Coors and O'Doul's! There was no deserving an 805—they were told not to even ask …

Excuses:  Wind:not! Temp(70):not! Drugs or Alcohol:not! Zombie interference:not!

12-15-17- R.I.P.!

When a Scramble isn't a Gamble!

When Alan is "on" and he happens to be your partner, and you happen to be playing in a "Scramble" format, the game is, "What wedge should I use?" I know Sam knew, no matter how far we might have driven the ball, Alan's drive (if driven reasonably straight—which his were on this date) would give us a massive advantage over our opponents. Not an ounce of braggart in the man, he reminds me of Mantle after a prodigious home run—head down, rounding the bases, almost embarrassed by the distance. Alan, after confirming the flight, has already bent down to pick up his tee; the small smile might grow wider if you bow to him as he walks to his cart. Time after time, Sam and I just shook our heads and/or bit our bottom lips. On the par 5 16th, after hitting a drive well inside the 200-yard marker, Sam and I hit 3-woods that would come up short. Alan's 3-iron gave us Eagle putts … and it went like that nearly the whole day.  

Recommendations from the others after the game—that Alan play left-handed or blindfolded—while understood, will not become reality! 

Typical Monday...

Coach with his sciatica, Phelps with his bad knee/toe, Riva and Raggio suffering on and off with a bad lower-left back, Wade and his wrists, Lyle with his bad hat ... The list goes on and on. We should seriously consider renaming the club: The Inevitables!!

Hole #3: Coach pulls out his new range finder and announces, "It's exactly 134.3 yards to the pin." Phelps digs deep in his bag, takes out a sextant, and adds, "And three inches." Coach nods—Wade slaps his head so hard he begins to wobble and I've bitten into my bottom lip so hard I can't stop the bleeding. Damn aspirin!