Nine under takes the prize! Two teams came in with the record!
Monday, March 18, 2019
Wednesday, March 13, 2019
Tuesday, March 5, 2019
Incredible Monday for "The Coach"
Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde: Coach on Monday.
Four incredible birdies—and a score threatening the century mark. You had to be there … It was simply bizarre, but damn fun to watch!
Saturday, March 2, 2019
A Politician’s Disclaimer?
I have decided, before I am exposed for actions I’ve forgotten, been forgiven for, been excused for, and those no one will ever know, I want to apologize for all the shit I’ve ever done that might be offensive today that was clearly unknown to be then.
But I want to go all the way back to when I was ten—no, no, five! I should have played Tonto occasionally instead of always wanting to be the Lone Ranger. And I want to admit now that my hands wandered to places they shouldn’t have while at the drive-in with Kimberly Love, who never actually said “no” until I went for the buttons. I realize I was dumber than a sack of sand, and should have known better when Butch announced that from now on he was “the nigger,” I was the “the wop,” and Eddie Guadalupe was “the speck”—yeah, the speck. We realized later that the word was really “spic,” but we had used “speck” too long to change it—it was the Bronx in the ‘50s, and that’s not an excuse, it’s an explanation. You won’t get it, but I’m not going to spend my life trying to define it for you.
I’m going to run for office and try to drive the car without always looking in the rear-view mirror to see what might catch up to me. You see, it slows the vehicle and delays getting where I would like to go: understanding what’s ahead and listening to those who know about destinations.
So I’m going back to age five, calling, “Ollie ollie oxen free!” I’ve never had body parts in my freezer, and I hope you vote for me!
Thursday, February 28, 2019
Monday, February 25, 2019
Golf Etiquette as we know it - Please read.
In matters of golf etiquette, I believe this combined group has afforded flexibility and experimentation while maintaining our reputation for playing in a consistent and fluid fashion; we play “ready golf” and pride ourselves on anticipating the next shot with a reasonable attachment to who is “away.” If you’re ready and you can see that the “away” person is going to take a bit more time, it’s a nod and then we hit.
Recently I played with a player who was loyal to a routine past the point of comfort. While I do understand routine and its companion (the hope for consistency and a successful shot), no routine should usurp or disturb the rhythm of the game. Looking at your companions and seeing how swiftly they engage their shots should be an indicator—one everyone should adopt (and normally adopts).
The practice swing (and God knows there should only be one over the ball) is the swing you hope to make. The repetition of swings that don’t relate to your planned swing takes time. I understand that in theory it loosens the swing and encourages a habit you might have had for decades. But more important to your teammates, you are punitively making them watch this “exercise” when you multiply this action on every swing; it can add up and take an enormous amount of time, and it’s exhausting to the onlooker. 137 practice swings by hole 12 are too many. (True story.)
Suggestions: While your teammates are addressing their balls, you should be addressing yours, taking those practice swings, and determining yardage info. And when it’s your turn, you’re already over the ball and prepared to hit it!
You’ve practiced your swings, you’ve aligned your stance, and, most importantly, you’ve kept up and not slowed the pace—and you show your appreciation for the rhythm of the game and your respect for the group.
ONE practice swing should be more than enough, and this includes chips, pitches, irons, woods, and especially putters. Take the glove off on the way to the green and plumb your ball marker so when it’s your turn to putt, the line is already agreed to. Bend over, and if you need to practice a putting stroke … well, if you must, do it and then sink the damn putt! ;-)
Trust what you know, what has been in you for decades. Watching someone take 10 to12 practice swings per hole is a root canal; don’t be a dentist!
Just sayin’ … We are all part of a team!
~ Raggio
Recently I played with a player who was loyal to a routine past the point of comfort. While I do understand routine and its companion (the hope for consistency and a successful shot), no routine should usurp or disturb the rhythm of the game. Looking at your companions and seeing how swiftly they engage their shots should be an indicator—one everyone should adopt (and normally adopts).
The practice swing (and God knows there should only be one over the ball) is the swing you hope to make. The repetition of swings that don’t relate to your planned swing takes time. I understand that in theory it loosens the swing and encourages a habit you might have had for decades. But more important to your teammates, you are punitively making them watch this “exercise” when you multiply this action on every swing; it can add up and take an enormous amount of time, and it’s exhausting to the onlooker. 137 practice swings by hole 12 are too many. (True story.)
Suggestions: While your teammates are addressing their balls, you should be addressing yours, taking those practice swings, and determining yardage info. And when it’s your turn, you’re already over the ball and prepared to hit it!
You’ve practiced your swings, you’ve aligned your stance, and, most importantly, you’ve kept up and not slowed the pace—and you show your appreciation for the rhythm of the game and your respect for the group.
ONE practice swing should be more than enough, and this includes chips, pitches, irons, woods, and especially putters. Take the glove off on the way to the green and plumb your ball marker so when it’s your turn to putt, the line is already agreed to. Bend over, and if you need to practice a putting stroke … well, if you must, do it and then sink the damn putt! ;-)
Trust what you know, what has been in you for decades. Watching someone take 10 to12 practice swings per hole is a root canal; don’t be a dentist!
Just sayin’ … We are all part of a team!
~ Raggio
Sunday, February 24, 2019
Something for everyone ...
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!
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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