June 27, 2010
Dave; It’s been a couple of weeks since the Norbeck Member Guest and I have replayed countless times the speech you delivered the night we won. It was touching, sensitive, emotional . . . but mostly, it was brilliant. Employing your friend’s fatal illness as a way to mask your addiction of winning at all costs was . . . well, it was perfect!
Painting me as a stumbling, drooling, cripple, practically guaranteed no one will ever question my handicap. But you, you have witnessed my innate physicality and mental fortitude and therefore concluded no matter how bad the PD gets I will always be able to slap it around . . . and, if bringing 38 or 40 shots? Good God man, it was beautiful!!
Although I do think it would be prudent to identify where this plan may have some weaknesses. First off, as we have witness many times in the not too distant past, when the Big Boys need to hit the Big Shots in the Big Shoot-out, the Big Daddy Express has experienced a proclivity to derail. But, now that I think about it, it IS perfect! As you sense victory slipping away and you begin to stumble and drool from the pressure, you unleash your Parkinson’s infected friend! The guy who has been shaking since he got there! The guy whose handicap can never be doubted! (Also the guy whose ball you have driven by after every tee shot, whose backswing you have consistently talked through and whose synapse are misfiring at an alarming pace . . . but I digress) Magnifique!
It’s very hard to be serious with something like that talk. It was considerate, caring, thoughtful . . . and it came from you? Can you blame me for struggling with how to respond? From the Top Gun dinner in ‘87 when I first was introduced to some guy running around half-faced telling everyone to call him “Maverick”, I knew I had made a friend. I just didn’t know how good a friend you would become. Despite the fact distance and circumstance have precluded seeing each other on any regular basis, when we do get together it’s as if we’re still at Eagle Lodge, still making each other laugh. Except that night I didn’t laugh, you made me cry . . . like a little girl . . . in front of 200 people . . . thanks, could you be a bigger dick?
The tribute you paid me, the life lesson you presented Jake and the way you so artfully captured our time together at Norbeck was, well it was beautiful. It was one of the most touching and articulate descriptions of friendship I have ever heard expressed . . . I hope you understand the level of my gratitude. Not for the kind words . . . hell I write and say stuff all the time I don’t mean, like here for instance. But for what you have shared with me.
You have shared your family, your Mom and Dad, the Norbeck MG’s . . . and I love them as if they were my own.
But even more important to me is how you make sure to stay in-touch, to check-in on me. To make sure I’m alright. Although there is a part of me that’s convinced you stay close to make sure I don’t break another body part, develop a new symptom or become destitute and move into a group home thereby forcing you to take Z to the Member Guest and another guaranteed runner-up slot . . . at least he’d have his socks pressed to counter your shirt hanging out.
Davy, I love you like a brother and appreciate all you have done for me more than you will ever know. This will self-destruct in 5 minutes, so read it fast . . .
Brian
Ex-Bell Guy 