Mr. Ham and Mr. Egg

I haven’t figured out over all these years which one is the ham and which one is the egg. I only know playing with them makes me feel like the yolk!

Example: Today

I’m having one of those rounds on the front nine. “Team Meal” (ham and egg) are avoiding eye contact, lest they have to acknowledge how poorly the effort is being put forward, or they’ve already used all the adjectives, long faces, and compassionate utterances they can think of—and it’s only the 5^th hole!

Speaking of which, my second shot goes so far left I tense up and await the accident my Titleist is about to threaten on the highway.

Meanwhile, back on course, of course golf is being played, discussed, measured, and nodded to by my playing partners, Mr. Hammer and Mr. Egg-straordinary. I concede to defeat on hole 5. I want to confess to a golf priest, all … well, a lot of my sins, to be extracted from this pain. The contrast (over there) by those people is painful. 

Suddenly I’m  Orpheus! If I don’t look back, maybe I can find my game; if I don’t peek, I’ll hit one straight; if I don’t look, I’ll gain some self-respect. I looked, damned to golf hell. If there be a melody and harmony of golf, it’s those two. God they’re fun to watch, fun to hate! They do encourage one to dig a bit deeper, even if the soul is lost.  

So. So I know what to expect and assume; they rarely let me down. I do feel like the bastard child, or Linda Blair bouncing on the bed, or that thing that explodes from the guy’s chest in Alien, from to time—but I’m forgiven by better play, and they don’t hold that last sentence against me. ;-)

Christ, even their names rhyme!

Upper 90s, brisk wind. The hills are already parched … and she's back!

I confess, I’d almost given up, ceded to the idea that “The Gal” was no more. Injury, nefarious circumstances, age, hunters—or maybe she had just moved.

On the eleventh tee, I watched Fred and Ed tee off, then did the same. They went down to the women’s tee, awaiting another good drive from Wayne. I stood on the tee and decided that, although there had been no response for over a month, I’d issue one last Hail Mary whistle and an extended arm. The wind was strong and the whistle would carry. Nothing.

I drove down to my errant tee shot and measured the distance to the hole. As I was measuring, I heard the familiar tread of my favorite coyote! She circled me as I asked where she’d been, nearly expecting an answer. She looked the worse for wear. Her new brood must be one rowdy group.

Suddenly the front nine melted away (54!). The Gal quickly gobbled up the Fig Newtons I had kept in my lunch box, just in case. She followed us to the next hole, where she talked me out of my ham sandwich.

She’s back … how cool is that?!

Gal gone?

They were never automatic, her visits. Sometimes often, sometimes infrequent, but always upon appearance came a respected welcome; four-legged royalty who seemed to set aside the “wild” part and dare proximity for a snack. Her swaying and circling, and the occasional paw scratch on the ground showing a bit of anxiety and impatience, seemed more like an attempt at communication. That one could whistle and hold up an arm and then find her racing from some unseen tall grass was, for me, anyway (and I suspect for others as well), a sign that our friendship was still present and quite active. We were the “pets” grazing past her territory and paying the toll with a variety of “tributes.”

It has been a month since “the gal” has visited, responded, or been sighted. Hopefully she is nursing a new brood and is much too busy to collect our infatuated faces and smiles. But she has been longer absent than any other span, and she hasn’t left a note, nor any indication of what is happening with her.

A group of golfers awaits with hopeful curiosity that she’ll show again, take some time to abate the concern, and confirm that it wasn’t something we said …

Commentary:Red vs White!

The inequity of playing both the women's tees and the senior tees can only become increasingly apparent, and while handicaps will fall and a theoretical balance should eventually come to rest, it won't. After participating in a few of the red/white games, the fact remains that skins will either have to be eliminated or separated. I thought I was the author of the idea of separating the two teams, but it turns out Coach and Fred had already thought of it. Figures!

It makes complete sense: those choosing to play the reds will compete in the same arena; the white tees, in theirs.  We can still integrate teams of play, but at the end of the day, the totals and winners will be added up separately.  

Even on my best drives I cannot compete on several holes, and a couple of strokes given up to handicap hardly cover the inequity. This solution makes complete sense and levels the playing field fairly.

P.S. We can still play teams or simply play individually if on any given day that is our preference. The difference in distance between red and white is 764 yards; the length of two par-four holes (2-3 strokes) hardly evens the field?  Think about it!

FEAR AND LOATHING IN FRESNO, OR HOW TO BECOME AGORAPHOBIC

My left ear is lower than my right. I can no longer harass my mother for this, she's passed—however, with age came glasses. I have to constantly adjust my eyeglasses to accommodate this lower-ear thing (which, by the way, was always hidden under my long hair before I needed to station anything on my face to see!). The adjustments finally caused one of the pieces that is supposed to rest on my nose to break. I called my own and every other optometrist in Oakhurst, hoping for a quick repair, only to hear “The Frame Doctor” in Fresno would be my nearest remedy.

Imagine that: I get to go to Fresno. I don’t like going to Fresno; I don’t even like spelling it. But there I am, driving to Fresno as if it really isn’t a big deal. Of course, I turn right instead of left, finally calling The Frame Doctor (Steve) who, after a “Wow, how’d you get way down there?,” gives me accurate directions, ending in, “I’m behind the Valero Station.” Now I hear and see the robot waving his arms yelling, “Danger, Danger, Will Raggio!”

About a block away, I’m looking around the neighborhood and getting a bit nostalgic; it reminds me of the place I grew up, the south Bronx. I pull into a strip mall and park in front of the “doc’s.” As I get out, my Subaru asks, “You’re not leaving me here, are you?” Okay, so maybe it didn’t really say that, but I sure had issues leaving it parked there, hitting the “lock” on my keychain button several times, I feel confident it’s secure and walk into The Frame Doctor. Steve greets me with, “We don’t take checks” (I guess I looked like check writer). I reply, “What’s a check?” and smile. Steve doesn’t. He tells me it will be an hour and $40. We’re talking about the device that helps me see, so what am I going to say? “$40 for that small piece of plastic?!”

I’ve already driven 40 miles one way. I nod and look about the mall for a place to eat. There is a Chinese restaurant around the corner from Doc’s. I enter the darkened foyer and, after my eyes adjust, see a man at his wok, furiously banging and waving his arms, very dramatic indeed. A woman comes from the back and says, “What you want?” I respond on the beat, “Baby I got it …” . The face before me is rock. So I look at the menu and I order beef chow mein, fried shrimp, and a Coke. She asks, “Large or small?” I’m parched, (mostly from fear) and I say, after clearing my throat, “Large.”

The cook, who is now not more than 15 feet away, listens to the woman, who addresses him in Chinese, and turns to examine me, nodding in what I believe is approval, and goes back to conducting his wok. I think it might be the “no bean sprouts, no vegetables” part of the order that makes him turn. The woman reaches down, takes out a Styrofoam cup the size of a medium-sized vase. The straw is dwarfed by this massive container. I’m biting down on my bottom lip not to smile or show any sign of weakness. I scoop it up and take a seat facing the open door, and then realize I have to fill it. Having done that, I turn to return to my seat; looking out the front door, I see a raven the size of a small dog in the lot, eating broken glass. This is one bad neighborhood!

I sit and continue watching as this raven starts to walk right towards the open door. He’s not in the best of shape—a junkyard raven, no doubt. Just as he or she gets to the door, the cook explodes in a tirade of Chinese and runs at him, swinging his wok spoon wildly. I’m not seeing this, I’m gonna wake up, my glasses intact—in fact, they never broke and it’s time for coffee!

One swing and the raven jumps back and returns to his broken glass, the cook muttering in Chinese (and I can tell he’s not muttering sweet nothings), then goes back to banging and scraping on the wok. All the while, people are coming in to pick up orders, nearly nonstop.

The woman finally brings my food over already in a plastic bag. I tell her I’ll eat it here; she shrugs and leaves me with my meal. At this point, I’m past being cautious or paranoid. The meal is reasonable, the Coke is excessive, and the drama is entertaining as hell, but I’m thinking about what’s inside the plastic bag. I cautiously remove two fold-over containers, place them side by side, and open them. The chow mein is filled past the brim and threatening to fall over the sides of the container. I pick it up just to confirm what I’m seeing—it has got to be two pounds of noodles and it’s generously mixed with pieces of beef. The fried shrimp is battered—thickly battered—and both look incredible. 

Both dishes taste past delicious! The cook looks back at me and I give him a thumbs up. He returns almost a smile and nods, as if to say, “Duh!”  I can’t even begin to scratch the surface on either dish. I’m too embarrassed to leave it, so I pack it up (after taking pictures). Who the hell takes pictures of Chinese food, I’m thinking, and I walk back around the corner, where I deposit some of the best Chinese food I’ve had in years in a garbage bin!

Subaru is intact and so are my glasses … True story, almost.

P.S. Steve did a great job!

Drama on what used to be hole number one

I was outside readjusting the Japanese maple branches when I heard the distinctive howl of a coyote. I looked down at what used to be #1 fairway to hear the rumbling of a herd of deer that came to rest on #4 lot. They stopped and froze, looking back at the howling. Near as I can figure, the coyote had taken a fawn. He or she stood over the prey, howling like mad; the deer never moved, just stared.

Lyle Bradley shoots one year younger than his birth certificate reads!

And who, disguised as that mild-mannered man ... 75? Really? REALLY??  

All pars and one birdie on the back 9?!

Short Lyle Bio:

Lyle "The Hat" Bradley was born in a small hamlet in North Dakota. He walked six miles to preschool as a youth (solo). When he started third grade, he began wearing shoes. It was on one of those treks to or from school where some say he found a stick and began striking stones with it. His teacher approached him at recess one day and told him he was a natural for a sport called golf, but that he would have to wear a different hat. Having been a Robin Hood fan since birth, Lyle reluctantly acceded to his teacher's suggestion; however, he did keep part of the hat: a two-foot peacock feather he still proudly displays over the guest john in his home. Carol, who finally tired of explaining the plume to guests, finally put a small note under it: "Don't Ask." The legend of "The Hat" has done nothing but grow and finally culminated today with the words a gypsy told him decades earlier:

"As you go through life, brother, whatever your goal,

Keep your eye on the donut, and not on the hole." 

Which of course Lyle had tattooed across his back while serving in a Louisiana State correctional facility for adding too much vermouth to an official’s martini.


I know none of this makes any sense, but every time I think of 75 and Lyle's 76 visits to candles on cake, my mind just ... goes!

I love that man! Congratulations, Lyle "The Hat" Bradley!  

You made us proud!