Lyle eagles Eagle! and the "Thursday" boys

Lyle's drive, as usual, found the fairway. He wasn’t happy with the angle, however, and the distance was at his max with the club in his hand. I was on the left side of the fairway, cursing the tree to the left of the green. I noticed Lyle was going to have to negotiate part of a different tree if he was going to have a chance to make the green.

From 101 yards out, he struck the ball that appeared to come perilously close to the tips of the oak in front of him. I watched the ball clear the tree and followed its path down towards the green and the pin. There was a loud clank (we’re all familiar with that sound) as the ball struck the pin. It appeared to me to disappear.

Then I realized it had gone in the cup, on a fly! Lyle and Alan weren’t in a position to see it. And Lyle’s first instinct was anger—the ball hitting the pin was obviously not good news. Ordinarily, striking the pin can mean an ugly ricochet. Not this time. I was yelling, “It’s in the cup, it’s in the cup!” Both men stared at me blankly, clearly refusing to believe me (it’s Raggio, and everyone knows he’s mad as a hatter).

It was Alan who first strode over and casually looked in the hole.  “Yep, it’s in there.”

Nothing short of remarkable!  A deuce on 10!

This is the third this year—Lyle’s from 101, Coach’s from 70, and Phelps’ from 85, I believe!

Yay, you guys!!

P.S. Wade shot 91, 58 net!

                      Lyle holding up two fingers for his deuce on #10!

                                                  THURSDAY BOYS

Eagle Swimming- photos thanks to Cathy Dahed!

#1

                                                                                           #5

Record score for 4-man Scramble!

Dick, Allan, Raggio and Riva go 10 under to win the day and set a fresh new 4-man scramble record.
"It wasn't Allan's distance like you'd expect. We all ham and egged it equally" said Dick.

* The gal showed up in her winter fur. I spotted her,  whistled, and she came running! Too cool! She devoured half my salami sandwich and 2 packs of fig newtons.

Eagle Men's Club Tournament Pics- Pasadera/Bayonet

                                Pasadera Country Club

                                             Bayonet

To say that these two courses slayed Raggio, Coach and Phelps would be an understatement! 

Scramble format: -7 ties the record: Sam, Lyle and Dick!

Ed's Eagle!

Moments before Coach took the 55-yard wedge shot, Wade called for a birdie on the hole. I insisted it should be an eagle. Coach made it nonfiction: two small bounces and right in the cup!

                                                          Winter showing, finally!

Golfing the Galaxy!

Wha ...? WTF!

Three days in Carmel Valley: reasonable golf, better food, and even better wine. I reluctantly headed east (home) to what I was told would be snowy roads and temperatures in the high teens. I pulled into my driveway and noted the “bowl” that surrounds the house was buried in snow, as were all the hills. I descended towards the garage and noted a piece of paper stuffed into the handle of my front door. I figured it was a propane receipt. 

I parked, walked around to get the “receipt” (the letter shown), and quickly saw it was not the standard propane receipt. I read the crumpled paper.  

DO NOT DRINK THE WATER!

For some reason this struck me as funny—so funny, in fact, that my giggle turned into a full “let go” and I attempted to walk past my convulsing stomach back to the garage. I’m unpacking when I realize I never use the front door—I would have had to find the “Alert” by accident. Shit.

The water supply was over-chlorinated and dangerous to drink. How long had it been that way? I know they don’t check it every day; in fact, they probably check it every month at best! It’s becoming less amusing. I haven’t drunk the water offered by the tap in my house for years. The smell, taste, and not-so mild warnings about the poisons that are “close” but have not reached critical levels had me arm the kitchen faucets with filters years ago. This past year I graduated to 5-gallon deliveries.

What the water resting in the toilets has done to the porcelain for years convinced me that “something wicked this way comes.”

I guess I needed to vent … what? Raggio vent? How about a call, a bright red/orange tag on the garage and door, an email alert like the ones we get about the weather? Nope, just a crumpled-up piece of paper stuffed in the handle of my front door that I rarely use.  

I love the mountains. It took some time to accept mountain realities and large doses of “Mountain Time”; on occasion, these absurd circumstances might bring an “Oh, fuck” on the coast, but here they just elicit a shrug, and a stuffed piece of paper warning of danger covers it. I just can’t find the anger, so I settle for a small head shake and a pat on my 5-gallon spring-water jug.