Riva and Raggio vs Fred and Ed!

Okay, here’s a golf first: a squirrel falls from the sky, hits the earth with a thud, and before it has a chance to collect itself, it’s immediately scooped up in the jaws of a coyote running mach 5. The coyote, mouth full, quickly disappears in the brush. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was a relay!

It happened so fast and the timing was so perfect we actually thought it was staged! The hawk that originally “owned” the squirrel kept flying after it dropped its prey; it never broke wing-stride, just slowly flew away. 

Remarkable!

But that was not going to be the only remarkable event of the day! We move now into Ripley’s Believe It or Not territory. Riva and I share a cart, Fred and Ed are in theirs. I suggest (foolishly) that lefties play against righties. I know we’re going to get destroyed. The “Fred-and-Ed-some” is notorious for its partner play. Sextants aside, these guys live for these moments! Their smiles immediately disappear and they go into factory mode. Distances, wind, roll—they have headphones on now and Riva looks at me and says, “See what you started!” 

Dueling banjos have nothing on these guys; they are both on the tee looking like scouts from some past cavalry, talking to each other while looking through binoculars (range things). A short nod and I am already regretting the suggestion.

We somehow tie the first hole! 

And then, we proceed to win the next eight … Riva and I both shoot 42! We end up 83-86, respectively.  We finish 4 and 3! I write this only because it is so rare that these guys ever go down! I’m looking for an old tooth to put under my pillow! Great sports, they bought us beers.   

Oh, and Raggio’s new Titleist AP1 irons perform past expectations!

This is a true story!

Pic and video of a very, very rare day... lefties vs righties

Another close one on #7 Coach and Raggio

We both missed our putts...

Nice swing Fred...

The boys and some swings...

The Cap

Right overhead...!

Getting Fitted!

Frank measures my hands (notes they’re large for a man my size). I remind him of what that means, and he nods blankly and then measures my longest finger to my wrist, my hands to the floor, my shoe size, my hair color, my grades in college, and my ability to recite the Pledge of Allegiance backwards.

On the range it gets much more technical. We experiment with lofts and angles, shafts and weights, swing speed and finally my Zodiac sign. I tell Frank I’m a Capricorn and he scolds me for not telling him right off, then says, “Forget everything I’ve said, hinted, or suggested; you Capricorns are like that one spike you can’t get out of your shoe. Stock Titleist will do fine, good luck with those …” He walks off the range talking to himself about his time being wasted and why God made Capricorns in the first place, especially left-handed ones—and that’ll be $900 and an extra $100 for a wasted fitting!

Still. I’m excited about the new sticks. I have no expectations that they will improve my game; improvements are things you do to your house and the way you feel after a haircut—or should. Fact is, living up to “better” new irons only makes me think of that Shakespeare quote: “He thinks a shank behind every swing”—or something like that. I am one of those people who believes that I need to hide my new purchase from my current Callaway irons, lest they conspire in resentment. Superstition runs in my genes, or so say my results from that DNA thing, “23 and Me.” 

I bit the bullet. My reasoning is that a falling Chinese space station might hit me when it “lands,” and my opportunity ever to make the purchase will be gone forever, or until my next life—though with my luck, I’ll come back as a divot!

Eagle Springs and its dormant fairways!