My game of late has become a box of chocolates.  

Casper clouds

A place for fog

The edge of collected images seems to dull in the passage of time and daily distractions. It is in the silence where they beg to appear from back in the line. Tilted heads leaning to be seen to the side of the even administrations that only have one purpose and that are born to tunnel vision, they stand perfectly straight—perhaps necessarily, though they are, without any personality, solid colors. Clear. Obvious. Styrofoam.

Notes sing and the fingers back there in the line snap, heads nod, hips move, and words rise like a melodic phoenix to remind something in me that rhythm is the jukebox of the heart, so I sing to remind those tilted heads they’re not just in line, they offer a place for fog where the world softens in meaningful nostalgia, and they remind my feet they’re not just for shoes, for walking.

When Yonex Liked Me

There is an element of greed in golf.


We all look for that edge or answer, combination or epiphany, that will elevate our game and earn us more skins: the ego of the longest drive, that seemingly obedient shot that skips to within a half inch or drops in the hole, the two-armed bandit that retains the same element of risk and hope as a one-armed bandit.

In that search for “better,” when improvement is made and becomes practice, we find ourselves complaining about “losing holes” by reframing it as, “I don’t stroke here,” said with regret. And yet, it is the ultimate goal: to lower one’s handicap! Yes, dammit, I want it both ways!


In the late ’70s (Check that, mid '80s) I owned a Yonex driver. I learned to drive it 225-250 yards without challenge. It became a “Yawn-ex” driver. The fellows I played with used Titleist and occasionally out-drove me by 10-15 yards—occasionally. Occasionally whispered to me more than occasionally, and I made the switch to eliminate those whispering yards.

If my retired Yonex could talk, I’m sure it would have said, shaking its head, “You’re trading shoes for skates, shithead!”


The New Driver was an enigma. The cost, my ego, and my handicap insisted that I use it until that Rosetta Stone appeared; it never did. When I finally admitted, understood, that consistency and trust were paramount, it was too late. My Yonex was no longer interested in returning to the good ol’ days. Hooks, slices, and tops abounded. All the cute, inane golfisms were offered in every failed effort off the tee.

“I hope you now know, Raggio, it ain’t the arrow, it’s the Indian.” The only reason these people are still alive today is because I left my off-duty in the car!


I have seen in our group nearly everyone bury themselves, only to rise like a phoenix. Sam of late, Coach not that long ago, certainly Fred next—and I could go on to every one of us. Okay, so it’s cyclical, and I know in time improvement will rear its overdue head and last week’s “fuckin’ ugly” will become a concert in time.


This all reminds me of the guy who is curious about what would happen if he licked his finger and inserted it in a light socket. He shrugs, he licks, he inserts. Eyelashes singe and smoke, his hair rockets his hat off his head, every nerve in his body is screaming at triple fortissimo, his muscles become rocks begging for release, he’s wet himself and something else is threatening, his entire life passes in flashes. He finally falls back away from the socket. He lies there, gasping, the smell of burned hair and flesh an acrid reminder of near death. He’s able to pull himself up on one elbow and he glares at the socket. He licks his finger again …


Golf: the ultimate self-abuse!

Another storm... lost a big oak

Massive wind (50-60 mph via the weather site—I think it was much stronger). I saw a huge oak get blown over right below the house. Some interesting videos—nickel-size hail. This was the strongest wind I have ever experienced.

        After most of the storm passed the west sky was completely orange!

The Rattler on hole 17!

Rich hit his ball to the left of the 17th green.  He examined the sloping chip and exited the short rough. Exiting right behind him was this baby rattler! Clearly vigilance should extend, not only to the high grass,  but anywhere where grass might be above you ankles. 

This blackbird considered taking on the creeper but ultimately decided against it.

Sam!

Not the best front nine—and, make no mistake, there was a time when the lowered shoulder never rose. But the “Sam, Sam I Am” I saw today was mostly certainly a Phoenix.

His game left the scabbard on the back nine with towering bombs off the tee and laser irons clearly wanting part of the credit. A monster fairway wood into wind on twelve sliced through the wind and appeared actually to land on the upper tier where the blue flag resided. As the ball crept a hint back, the skulking white orb, ignoring the majesty and the mastery of the last shot, began a depressing descent back down from the top of the green and hurried in its shame, coming to rest in that familiar low-land portion where judging a putt to reach the pin often found one awaiting the embarrassing return for yet another effort.

He took it well. We all commiserated with him and shrugged that “Wanna-gonna-do” 40-50 feet of green. The ball came off the putter and we knew immediately that it would make the landing. Halfway, it was clear the ball might even be close. Normally on such a long putt, an intermission would be called for, but Sam would have none—swish! Pin left in, the ball never even tapped it. It fell into the cup like a napkin falling off one’s lap: silent, cocky, and conclusive. Birdie man spins and begins a small but growing laugh. We all shake our heads in amazement!

And so it went this day on this back nine. Sam shoots a one-over 37.  And we are all not a little surprised. Yeah, it’s been a while, but a few years ago, we wouldn’t have been surprised at all.

Welcome back, Sam—Retro Sam!