Something wicked this way comes …

Hole Five (Par 5) before it was opened.

"It" will lie in wait. Ducks and geese will treat it like an ordinary pond. Perhaps it will be stocked with bass before it is involuntarily stocked with Titleists, Taylors, and the like.

If you’re fortunate enough to have a third shot that requires a generous loft, then the only fear will be the intimidation of the view before you. But, as FDR said—tsk tsk—“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” NO SHIT, FRANKLIN!

Try to ignore the tightening of the grip, the limited backswing and the left-to-right breeze; after all, it’s only 120 yards!

The other wicked adventure that might await is the poor drive or missed-hit second shot, which leave the player a 150- to 175-yard shot. Given the angle of the target, it might look very much like a giant discarded green thong with about as much depth! But fear not: There is, of course, the “layup.” Just thinking about it will begin to shrink your ’nads as those players around you look away and pretend they understand. Better to be a safe scorer than an embarrassed near-hero.

As if the visual was not enough, there is a sloping green for yet another opportunity to be menaced. Hitting the wrong side of the green will most certainly have its punishments. You’ll say, out loud, “I should have hit it over there.” Everyone will nod in agreement and think, “You’re fucking lucky to have hit the green at all, Raggio!”

Oh, one more thing, as if the list isn’t long enough: There are traps! And we all know how traps are. Sometimes they require a splash and sometimes an explosion. Can’t wait to see those thin shots and hear that wonderful ploosh sound as the ball clears the green and hits the water.  

“Hey, Coach, where do I hit from now?”

Food hoarder disorder

I don’t eat leftovers. My wife thinks she does, but in fact, she only collects leftovers. All leftovers. No portion is too small or insignificant not to be “Tuppered” (new word). I should have known, looking at her vast army of Tupperware early on, that there was an issue. I ignored the small voice in my head that whispered, “Danger Will Robinson, danger!”

Further warning came when, after one of our first dinners, I began to scrape the orts from my dish and she scolded me sharply. “Are you throwing that away?!”

I paused, looked down, looked up at her face, and finally said sarcastically, “I’m sorry, whatever was I thinking?” Imagine, I had already forced myself to eat two of the four Brussels sprouts on my plate. The idea of saving the last two little fuckers would never have crossed my mind. Vegetables are not my favorite food—so sue me.

I remember back then I thought the light had gone out in her fridge and then realized every shelf was packed with cartons, packages … and Tupperware. The light wasn’t out; the fridge was just so packed the light was useless! It was like looking into a miniature pre-dawn picture of Tokyo.

Saving a salad made a month earlier means to me there should be some couch-time consideration and maybe some good meds!  Nothing was dated (not that it would have made much of a difference to me). I don’t regard leftovers highly, but I was curious: What’s back there, back where the light illuminates itself? I looked both ways and began disassembling the tiny community before me. There was a light at the end of the shelf, and right next to it was a suspicious container with a slightly red tinge to the contents. I lifted the container and noted it seemed heavier than I thought it should be. The rubber top teased and dared my curiosity, and then it threatened my resolve about the whole matter. Suddenly I was Steve McQueen being chased through that supermarket by a massive mountain of breathing strawberry jelly anxious to consume me! Hey! Maybe that’s it! She’s afraid to open them! Yeah, that’s it!

That’s not it.

I quickly replaced and reassembled the condiment community, slammed the door, and found my back pressing against it. Part of me was actually waiting for some inner movement to indicate an effort to escape. 
So she’s hiding a food-hoarder disorder! Could be worse, right? Right??

Lyle's Day!

Lyle caught fish after fish after fish—more than a dozen that I counted. Bass, bluegill, shark, sturgeon, steelhead, perch, eel, and smelt—all visited his line (or so he said). Coach and I just nodded as he told his tale. We can vouch for the bass and the bluegill. The other "visitors" take some imagination.

It was wearying to watch his casts with his fly-fish pole and to hear him yell, "Fish on!" over and over. I half expected him to start breakdancing after each release. I was using pretty much the same lure, the losing lure after trying worms. I felt so foolish after Coach and I dug and dug yesterday, muddied up, to garner worms so small we weren't sure they could be baited on even the smallest hook.  

I was over there and then over there, moving in different spots, consistently unsuccessful. Coach had to share the ladies’-tee perch with Lyle, and we had to witness live the constant reeling-in of his catches. He would later admit he had wished social distancing were 50 yards, not 6! To his credit (and so, so Coach), Coach tried every bait and lure in his four tackle boxes. He even tried hooking a picture of a worm on a hook. He had salmon eggs, ham and eggs, and leftover Easter eggs. Tried ’em all. No shame showed on his face, and, as he cast each hope, he mimicked that thing Barry Bonds does at home plate after a home run: you know, when he gestures from his lips to the heavens. That didn't work either.

Okay, so Lyle left a bit taller today—his swagger, earned. The Hat ruled and I tip mine to him!

        Notice Lyle behind Coach giving advice and encouragement!

Here Lyle assures Coach he can't catch the virus from his shadow!

Here Coach is laughing and happy because the fish took his bait!  I had that same elation a few times. (How pathetic we were)

Here is The Fisherman looking across the pond at Riva stretched out on his lawn chair. 

The water hazard

                      When you realize you just don't have enough club ...

The Ace that never happened!

The morning tee was filled with talk about the direction of the infection, the detection.

No election, reflection, correction, nor recession conversation followed the first fairway. On hole number seven our attention was demanded as Dalhed’s wedge landed past the pin and gradually wandered back at the cup like a lost orphan. It bit and made its slow retreat back at the cup.

I crossed my orange-Cheetoed fingers as the ball continued to tease toward the hole. There’s always some clown who yells, “Go in the hole!” Today I was Bonzo. I yelled—the men on the 8th tee rushed to see the retreating ball. Back, back, back—it came to a stop an inch from the cup!

I instantly realized that Sam Dalhed had committed some ungodly act in a past life. I suddenly saw him as one of the Black Sox, the scout on the Donner Party, or Snidely Whiplash! Some kind of massive karma had risen up on the seventh green to yell, “Nyah, nyah, nyah!” No, that was actually me.

Remarkable shot, a superb shot!  (See the pics)

I was plagued all day with Fred’s putting, chipping, and driving.  Those silly shots he makes from off the green that go bip-bop-stop! Bip this, Yoda!

                                                         Sam's remarkable shot!

Whoa!

I guess the windshield really doesn't do much to prevent injury!

We saw this parked when we returned the cart.

Ode to three-putt days

(prompted by a day where we all suffered a familiar malady)




To be read or sung to "Yesterday"

Yesterday, all my three-putts seemed so far away,
Now it seems as though they’re here to stay,
Oh I despise these three-putt days!

Suddenly, even putts that seem so clear to me,
End up being that damn number three,
Oh, I can’t hide from 1-2-3.

Why do I putt for dough,
When I know I just can’t play?
I send the putt too long,
Know it’s wrong— they look away.

Yesterday, all my three-putts seemed so far away,
Now it seems as though they’re here to stay,
Oh, there’s no place to hide away.

Sam, Coach begin to crow,
Say they know, there’ll come a day,
I say it just seems wrong,
It’s too long, my feet are clay!

Yesterday, golf was such an easy game to play ...
Now I need some wings to fly away,
Just can’t stand one more three-putt day!