After last year’s 2009 Member-Guest, I found I needed surgery to repair what I thought was a sprained ankle; and Dave figured was me being a pussy…no shock there. It turned out to be torn ligaments, tendons and a couple of other things resulting in a complete ankle reconstruction where they break the heel bone and move it over a bit, throw a couple of screws and pins in and sew you back up. The surgery was February 25th followed with 10 weeks of non-weight bearing, four weeks with progressive weight bearing and rehab.
Things deteriorated right out of the gate. Initially tasked with promptly disposing the contents of my requisite pee bottle, Sally soon tired of getting buzzed on the intercom at 2:30 in the morning and ceased responding. Her lack of fortitude forced me to begin stockpiling empty Snapple bottles and bagging my bedtime cup of tea. The resultant stress manifested in an unhealthy desire to consume the deli hoagies and potato chips my mother would pick up while announcing, “It’s OK. They’re comfort foods.” The not-shocking consequence was an additional eight pounds of attractive ass-fat to a frame that didn’t need it…that and an emergency alteration of all golf attire.
Regarding my return to golf, I did have choices. I could go directly to Dave’s Thursday and play the practice round and listen to supportive comments like. “Are you EVER healthy?” and “Can you stop shaking, it’s distracting?” or take my buddy Z up on his offer to come down a couple of days early and play my first post-surgery golf at International CC. Quick Plus/Delta and I decided to accept Z’s offer. It’s a great track and the guys Z plays with are all very nice. Unfortunately for my training regime, no one was consuming mass quantities of vodka drinks pre-6 a.m.
I love staying with Z. His beautiful wife is a high-profile executive who happens to cook better than Rachael Ray. She has an intense schedule, comes home after working 12 hours, makes fabulous appetizers, serves incredible dinners and engages in erudite conversation. Gregg? Well, he also has a “schedule.” He gets up early, irons his socks, underwear and golf shirt; wipes down his sneaks then brings in the paper. Repeat every 24 hours.
His garage could pass for a Home Depot showroom but it’s the basement that worries me. It’s a great basement, most of it beautifully finished, but with a part set aside for a work area with tools, workbench and the obligatory chiller. To provide a better description, envision the kind of man-cave Felix Unger would occupy…neat racks with little jars holding screws and washers, organizers everywhere. But what I found most disturbing is the workbench actually has little cardboard “bumpers” on the corners. The experience forced me to question Z’s true orientation and the conclusion is obvious. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
Just when I think it’s all good, I tell him I’m ready to leave for the club and my first round in over six months and he tells me to stop. He notices I have a wrinkle in my shirt. I think that strange, since I had just pulled it out of my suitcase where it had happily lain, co-mingled with all the other clothes I jammed in for the four and a half hour ride…
Nonetheless, I set about getting myself in shape for Dave’s tournament. Request vodka with breakfast, beers with lunch and close out with a smooth transition back to vodka for dinner…Norbeck’s version of South Beach. Training goes well but hits a snag when I introduce a cuvee’ of neurological drugs. I find they are having a deleterious effect on a couple of mildly important areas…focus, eye-hand coordination, balance…breathing…but figure a couple of strong Dan Smith’s pre-teeing will neutralize the problem .
After four days not sure where I am but feeling better prepared for what’s ahead.
Thursday, Day One:
Practice Round – Meet Dave at course for practice round since he has some family matters to deal with. Son Jake graduates from 8th grade. Jake is someone special to me, he doesn’t know it of course, but he and the rest of Dave’s family all are. I have watched them grow up in increments of roughly one year at a time. A couple of years ago Jake asked me to observe an ad hoc experiment he was conducting out in the Ryan garage. He had found a small spider web and was feeding ants to the resident occupant…the not shocking discovery was male ants screamed louder than females when plunging to their doom. I told him this actually tracks perfectly with human behavior and, in fact, I have a similar reaction every time I get into a golf cart with his Dad.
Day officially begins with large vodka drink in the new men’s lounge. The one I gladly helped furnish though living 220 miles away so I can sit in it three days a year during the Member-Guest. There, Dave informs me we can’t win this year because we won last year. Having been in a couple of post-play shoot-outs that’s fine by me…100+ guys, almost all who are shitfaced, watching you gag while offering insightful commentary such as “you suck.” This gets him very emotional leading to a melancholy reenactment of all the great shots he made during the ’09 shoot-out, unfortunately for him, I was actually there. While Dave composes himself I bump into one of my favorite guys at the club, Pete Biava. Love Pete. He smokes cigars, which makes him macho, wears a white belt, which does not. This critique from a guy whose buttons are screaming and who drools on his shirts.
Find out we’re paired with Benji and his guest Mr. 2 Hit, Jeff Keitelman. Apparently Jeff struck a ball twice when playing a shot thereby earning the name, however being from New Jersey, I give the guy a little room. Anybody with a moniker of “Mr. 2 Hit” would have an altogether different reputation 200 miles north of here. Jeff’s also a member at the exclusive bastion, Columbia CC, making the question whether he’s a good guy or a good fellow moot. Either way, I want to be his friend. This, however, begs the question: Why is he playing Norbeck? One of only two reasons come to mind: (a) Benji is looking for reciprocity, clients, a favor, or all three and Jeff has nothing better to do (b) Jeff actually likes to drink, laugh and have a great time. My guess is (a).
I admire Benji; successful attorney, solid family man and socially responsible citizen. I visited his house recently and viewed a collection of family portraits. Bad move letting me near those. Hard to properly convey his disturbing metamorphosis from a 1960’s hirsute academic nerd to today’s Mexican-hairless attorney nerd. When sporting a goatee he has an eerie resemblance to Herb Albert, all that’s missing is the Tijuana Brass, give him back his coke-bottle glasses and you got Larry King, add-in hair and he tells you Brad Pitt. I would expect no less from a lawyer.
This year during the practice round he enjoys showcasing another of the many socially limiting attributes readily on display during Member-Guest festivities. His particular forte was the always popular, breaking-wind on command. Now I concede it’s a really cool way to garner attention and score with the ladies…but this year his behavior actually causes a problem with his guest. Not due to the toxicity of the expulsion, nor the breach of common decency, but because Mr. 2 Hit does not possess the requisite sphincter control to undertake such a high-risk maneuver. He is understandably “concerned” his efforts to emulate Benji’s gastro-inter/anal feats might result in something a bit more substantive. In a failed attempt to overcome his shortcomings, he spends the remainder of the day eating green leafed vegetables trying to work-up a rebuttal and is never a factor.
Run into Dave’s brother-in-law Danny, another crowd favorite and a great guy. Says they are without a pairing and have decided to play with us in six-man Wolf. Wolf is fun, if you’re good. If you’re not (see Stark, Brian A.) you run the risk of embarrassing yourself and losing your lunch money along with your pride. Betting is determined using a formula Steven Hawking would have trouble figuring out and at the end of the round I lose an acceptable $14. I am comforted after learning all winnings will help fund a counseling session for Dan’s long-time partner Mickey. The problem exacerbating this charitable gesture is the need to find a professional versed in a variety of unique and seriously abnormal behaviors, whose interpretation of “normal” is comprised of a loose set of metrics and who respects what could possibly be defined as “(way) out of the box” thinking. As of this writing, the search continues.
End up staying late, getting shit-faced and asking Dave to drive…a clear indication I want no part in living to see tomorrow. Vaguely remember stopping at 5 Guys Burgers, going in and staring vacuously at the wall waiting for Dave to return with food. Twenty minutes later I’m led out to my car and stumble in. Get to Dave’s where I mumble incoherently to Alice and her twin Margarita before staggering down the steps and falling asleep with my clothes on. God that was awful. Worse, I think somebody called me Billy Nolan.
Friday June 11, Day Two:
Match 1 – Up early and shower with clothes on due to extraordinary nozzle velocity. This because Dave decided to install a Power-Washer attachment in the shower to help eradicate the ant infestation of ’08 then leaving it in because, well, he’s Dave. This year I brought my old catcher’s cup to wear after getting the full force directly on “the boys” last visit and not being able to have sex for six months…Sally was devastated, she thought for sure it was going to be eight, at least.
Get to club and already I’m feeling pressure. Dave informs me this morning he has to run over to Jake’s school and watch him receive his diploma. Tells me he can play a couple of holes of the first match then I’m on my own. Oh, and don’t let him down. Gently remind him he said we can’t win so what does it matter? I’m immediately greeted with a vacuous stare. It is painful watching his face contort as he searches for some oblique argument to counter his original statement while justifying his latest observation. I save him rupturing a blood vessel and tell him I’ll do my best. Bump into our good buddy Gaetan, founder of The Brotherhood of the Cup, (no, he’s not a pasty chef) and find out his longtime partner and our friend Luke will not be playing this year. This is due to totally unacceptable decision to have a romantic get-a-way weekend with his wife. Immediately initiate ball busting call to torture our buddy for having such misguided priorities. Mission accomplished. We head to tee.
We’re playing Fred Wagner and his guest Scott Hallam. Scott is from Woodmont CC, an upscale facility, and is clearly stunned at the events unfolding around him. I consider telling him to look up Rick Karp and see if he has any pills left from last year when he brought “the doc” as his guest. After imbibing one of his wonder drugs, Rick was left pain-free, also speech-free and near the end of our match, breath-free. Miss the Doc.
Tee off and after three holes we’re 3 up, no thanks to me. Dave’s playing well and I figure we need one more before he takes off. Push the fourth hole and he leaves me with the inspirational admonition “don’t f up.” His seat isn’t even cold yet and I immediately drop the next two holes. Then it dawns on me…I have no chance. Nobody is yelling obscenities and telling me how good they’re playing or how much I suck. Desperate, I flag down a maintenance guy and give him $5 to scream something during my backswing. Though confused, he does and I check the slide, we win 1-up.
Match 2 – Par – Not much to say when you play against Par…they’re tough to beat, don’t drink and you can’t get in their head. On the up side, figure Dave won’t make it back and I’ll enjoy the solitude. Unfortunately, he blows in like a hurricane for the first hole screaming, “How did we do?” Tell him 1-up and get a ration of shit because I didn’t do better. Gently remind him he said we can’t win again and get rewarded with another confused look.
Match 3 – Grab quick lunch and head to 12 where at first it appears we’re playing Bob Cousey and “The Rock.” Get closer and it’s Henry Meadows and his guest Darren Braude. Good guys, not shocking. I remember Henry from past events, a true gentleman; polite, gracious, well-mannered, an all-around “good guy”…I immediately question what the hell is he doing at Norbeck? He gets out sporting his trademark high-whites and I’m anticipating a quick game of H-O-R-S-E before we tee it up. I consider making funny comment and think better after shaking hands with Darren who looks like he could hold his own with the Hulk in a Steel Cage Death Match. Also notice he’s bringing more shots than me, a disturbing thought. How much more is Ryan going to bore into me if I don’t step up? Hey, why am I worrying, we can’t win again so who cares?
Start off well, go 3-up early and begin to hold intelligent conversation with Dave. This should have been a flag right there. Get to fourth hole and all of a sudden Henry catches fire and ours goes out. I have Dave camped on my ass informing me for the 100th time that Darren is my mark while I’m just trying to figure out how to not fall over when addressing the ball. Mention to my partner, just for informational purposes, that his “mark” is beating him like a drum. Suitably challenged, he apparently decides a good strategy would be to stop hitting anything resembling a golf shot and immediately blades a couple. Meanwhile, Henry drops a 30 footer to win one hole then chips in to win another and by the end of the match we limp in, down 1. Dave is not taking this well and tells me I didn’t keep pace with Darren, which I didn’t, probably because he has two working feet. To which I reply it was entertaining watching him morph from hitting “Ruthian” drives like George Herman to sculling wedges like “Pee Wee” Herman. As we drive to hand in our card I sense trouble and consider asking for “5” to refocus. Not necessary, 30 seconds into the ride he says, “Let’s get some beers” and Team Ryan is back on track.
Day ends with steak dinner, more alcohol and general ball busting. Dave introduces me to Chris Burns who isn’t playing because he’s leaving for Paris the next day. Impressed, I comment how that should be fun and am informed it’s not. Apparently he travels there a lot, what a drag…eating croissants and drinking coffee at a café on Rue du something sounds fun to me. Chris tells me he enjoys the recaps, which is worrisome and informs me he sends them to some of his employees. I guess that’s marginally better than having them look at porn on the Internet.
Next up is the always entertaining Long Drive challenge. Played in this once, after Dave consumed about 20 beers and a handle of vodka, then got up and casually ripped one about 280. By the time I figured out what was going on it was way too late. Literally surrounded by 150 slobbering, screaming and totally inebriated cavemen, I make my way to what I know will be complete emasculation. In my recurring flashbacks I hear words of encouragement like “don’t be a pussy,” “you suck” and that was just Dave. I vividly recall Tarbs, glassy-eyed and red faced, telling my partner he doesn’t have a chance. To which my partner, red faced and glassy-eyed responds, “I know.” Fired up by the lack of confidence I slap one about 185, shoot Dave a look of disdain, bend down, pick up my penis and head for the privacy of the locker room to have it reattached.
Saturday, Day 3:
Match 4 – Up early, back to sponge bathing till Davy replaces nozzle. Stretch for five minutes and attempt to read paper upstairs where he’s doing email. Forced back to basement due to whining and injured animal noises coming from Dave as he tells me every 30 seconds how tough his job is. I think back a month to the emails he sent out coordinating Boys Night Out. The engineers who landed a probe on a comet a billion miles away and traveling thousands of miles per minute weren’t as detailed and he can’t handle a work meeting?
Get to club without incident, drop a generous dozen doughnut holes to cover the 8 bag and cart guys and go in for breakfast. Hook up with usual crew for pre-game ball busting, vodka loading, videos of up-coming opponents and game-day strategy session. The latter, the usual. Dave will hit it far, I will hit it often and somehow we’ll make the Shoot Out, which we can’t win because we won last year.
Arrive at tee and meet Jay Watts and Rick Leftwich, couple of good guys who got Piñata’d by the team we beat 1-up yesterday. It’s always good to start with a false sense of security. Quickly go 3-up again and I begin worrying we might actually get into the damn shoot out after all. Reach the 4th hole and my fear abates when Rick the 32 goes par, par, birdie on his ball…without strokes. Rick has a great swing for a thin guy 8 feet tall; I’m 5’11 and a buff 225. If you put him and I together we’d still equal two skinny people. As luck would have it, while he’s beating us single-handedly, I’m playing my best and losing by a stroke. A fact not lost on my partner. A quick jam session ensues employing a red-dot exercise that Dave uses to demonstrate it’s my fault we’re now all square. After assimilating all relative data, we quickly parlay “all square” to “all over” as we lose by 2. Intense shit-storm follows as Dave implores me to “up” my game. I mention my newly reconstructed ankle and the fact the screws aren’t even fully set and reiterate his comment regarding we can’t win again so what does it matter? His swing is wide right and I don’t wish to repeat his reply.
Match 5 – Check board and we’re in serious jeopardy, not that it should matter. Dave says we need to play better, actually he doesn’t say “we.” While not questioning my manhood directly, he makes reference to my proclivity of hitting short drives. I thank him and mention it was refreshing to watch an 8 blade a chip…twice on one hole…while putting like Jack Hammer. Harmony and goodwill overflow…
Get to play two guys I really like, the brothers Mountcastle, Ken and Don. Solid competitors, Dave says we should have a fun match then follows with we need to go Byzantine and crush the life out of them early. Looking forward to the jocularity sure to ensue. Arrive at tee late since Dave was back at the scoreboard running quick calculations determining our chances based on multiple scoring scenarios. Didn’t realize they put Cray mainframes in Sprint cell-phones…technology is beautiful. By now I’m exhausted from lack of sleep, elevated blood alcohol levels and sunstroke and Dave tells me I need to carry my weight…that’s a whole other problem. I tell him it’s up to him and get the expected reply “so what else is new?”…I tell him my ankle, then duck.
First hole is 11, we win when Dave gets on in two with a great drive and greater 2-wood, but I’m sure you heard him screaming. In fact, anyone living, working or visiting within 10 miles of the club heard him. Push 12 and win 13 where I think I did something good but because Dave drove it around the corner to 80 yards what I did didn’t matter because “daddy hit it far.” Somewhere during the match the brothers say we have a chance to win the shoot-out. I guess they didn’t get the memo, we can’t this year.
We finish plus 5 and Dave says we played well…actually, he doesn’t say “we”.
Shoot-Out – Worst fears are realized, I’m alive, playing in Dave’s Member-Guest and we’re going to the Shoot-Out. I really don’t like the pure alternate shot format. Unless you have ever played in something like this it’s hard to convey just how stressful it is. I think I’ve been in four or five and they don’t get any easier…usually because Dave leaves me in such interesting positions. That, or he’s killing the ball and I’m just trying not to embarrass myself. Nonetheless, we’re here…Dave says we can’t win again so I guess we’re just going to have some sphincter-tightening fun.
Hole 14 – We reload with beer and head to 14 and join the other runners-up. See Clark’s assistant Pete, great guy with nice hair and it appears he is trying to get things organized. He’d have better luck trying to herd cats. Finally order is restored and I’m first to hit…the fun starts here. This is a downhill par 4 with a huge bunker protecting a green which slopes back to front. I figure this time I’m going to return the favor and give serious consideration to my partner’s strengths and place my shot to advantage us. Having done the quick calculation, I pull my drive dead left, about 120 yards, leaving Davy a downhill lie, 195 out…perfect. My planning pays dividends when Dave punches a shot into, then out of, the sand leaving a hole-high chip to the flag. When I attempt to enlighten Dave about my strategy, he initiates verbal hurricane telling anyone in range how well he executed as I gaze in rapturous awe of his ignorance, I begin to agree…execution is a good idea. Play resumes after what seems an eternity of hacking, including my underwhelming chip. Dave’s putt stays short but I tap-in for 5-net 4 and we go to 13.
Hole 13 – Good hole for Dave to showcase his long-drive talent, like it’s a big deal. He does, only this time leaving me on a root, under a tree, 100 out, to an elevated green with a bunker seriously in play. I’m last to hit since “Daddy” is glory seeking and just has to get those last few pounds of ass into the shot to out drive everybody. Having “hit it far” he leaves me and goes up to the green to witness my approach. He is blissfully unaware, as are most others, that my ball is on a root. If I hit it thin, which is likely, it won’t clear the bunker and we’re dead. If I don’t hit it at all, because that’s exactly what I’m afraid of, it’ll be my fault we lose the hole and the shoot-out…which. of course, we can’t win because we won last year. Dave, waiting to entertain the horde at my expense if things go bad, or take credit if I miraculously scrape something close, is becoming impatient…Dave, impatient? Sweating profusely and limping due to being on my ankle for so long and having him on my back, I take a 9, set, and swing…hard, because I fear not getting it to the hole will elicit a tsunami of loud, embarrassing comments…and manage to clear the hazard leaving Dave a 15 foot chip. No cheers, no “good shot from there,” I limp up to the green and my partner says “you hit it fat.” Since firearms are not allowed on premise I consider my chances with a putter…what a dick.
OK, my 8 has a 15 foot chip and I’m envisioning something inside the leather, no more than a couple of feet at worse. One thinned wedge later I’m contemplating a downhill, down-grain exceedingly fast 12-foot shot. Not in the heavy rough, not where I hoped to be either. I’m 6 feet off the green in the executive cut so at least I can putt. I look at Dave and he gives me the “perfect, you got this” reply and proceeds to tell people in the gallery, “If you can’t make these you shouldn’t be out here.” Rather than kill him with witnesses I elect to wait. He gives me a read…fast, 3-cups out. A guy a foot over and just back goes first and the ball does nothing, just runs 15 feet by the cup. I tell Dave I’m hitting it straight and he gives me the raised eyebrow look. I address the ball and let it go…praying it stays on the green. It does, dead center, in. Dave comes over, pats me on the back and says “how ‘bout that read.” All of a sudden, witnesses don’t matter. We head to 16. We make the first batch of eliminations.
Hole 16 – Hate this hole, I think because in ’07 during the Shoot Out I chunked one just over the pond and we were eliminated. Dave took that well…this year I actually par’d it when Dave was at Jake’s graduation. Today it’s playing about 185 and Dave probably has a 7 or 6. I don’t care; I’m too busy trying to keep my lunch down. There are hordes of carts filled with inebriated men who spent their grocery money on parimutuel bets waiting to see if they can ever go home. I just want him to leave me something easy…he swings, it’s high, drifting right…I’m praying it goes wide enough to avoid the bunker, but no, just in under the lip but playable, at least he tells me it’s playable. In fact he tells me it’s perfect. Our buddy Benji, (Herb Albert) who made it to the final pairing with his guest Gregg Z last year, dumped his shot in the pond and went long on his next attempt. Our other buddy Gaetan, his partner was short and it looks like they’re out, but there are still two balls on the green. Dave tells me take a 9 and hit it close. I’d like to take my 9 and hit him upside his melon for leaving me with this POS. After everyone is on, Clark says to go…if only. I have a gap-wedge and fully expect Dave to be hitting out of the trees our next shot. I focus, as best I can with one ankle supporting my weight and shaking like the guy from Deadliest Catch who fell overboard into the Bering Sea. Then it dawns on me, we can’t win this year anyway, just swing. I do and it stops a foot from the cup. Dave taps in and we go to Chip Off.
Chip Off – Hole 16 – Got stuck doing this last year when my partner forgot to bring his wedge down and managed a decent shot. I tell Dave I don’t want to do it this year and get the argument “hey, you just chipped out of the bunker…this is easier”…yeah? Well why aren’t you jumping in? Argument goes nowhere; Clark picks a spot 20 yards from flag in high rough and says you can set the ball up. I do. I shouldn’t have. Swing 56deg and almost miss, the club just catching the ball which goes about four feet onto the green and stops. The magic is gone and I look over to Dave for that consoling, buddy-you-did-fine man-hug. I’m still waiting…
We figure we’re out and just as I am beginning to relax the next guy does what I did and doesn’t get inside me . . . worse, the last guy double hits and is automatically out. We’re in the final pairing . . .
Hole 17 – Final Pairing Shoot Out – Dave and I are both stunned. Never thought we would be in this situation again. The two we’re playing I don’t know, but are typical of what I have come to expect at Norbeck, great guys. We shake hands and it’s my turn to hit. I unsheathe my favorite club, driver. Love driver, allows me to showcase my manly length in front of 100+ rabid golfers who have been drinking since about 6:30 this morning…can’t wait. As expected, I hit it about 190, but straight. They hit further. Go to my ball and Dave’s up. I ask him how he’s going to swing with that albatross wrapped around his neck. He looks over and says he’s going with 2-wood. Well, that’s a better call than 5-iron which he used to not only torpedo me with, but one year when he brought Z as a partner torpedoed him as well…an attractive blade resulting in the ball 20 yards in the woods, and us out of contention. Last year he selected the 2-wood, which he had been smoldering all week. It worked better than the 5-iron since it didn’t make the woods, didn’t make the fairway either. What it did was flutter about a buck-twenty. So I am expecting nothing and what happens? “Daddy hits it far” shows up and he torches it about 225. I look over and the albatross is off his neck and now casually draped around his ankles. It will require more than one shot to exorcise all the demons.
Not sure, but it may have been that shot that understandably rattled the other team…hard to watch when your opponent has just pureed one that well…it was hard for me to watch and I’m his partner. In any event, their second shot goes OB and I think Dave and I both feel the same. These guys played tough to get here and you hate to see that happen. They hit down and I hit up, short of the green leaving Dave with a chip similar to last year and fully expecting him to leave me something in the 25-30 foot range knowing I demonstrated success from that distance last year. Apparently that would be asking too much. Acting to satisfy his insatiable ego, his hero fixation, his blatant singularly focused desire to be recognized for doing something, anything, on as grand a stage as the Norbeck Member-Guest, he decides he’s going to “go for it.”
As I have counseled him over the years, stay within yourself, don’t force the heroics…some possess the pulchritude and grit that allow us to rise Phoenix-like at the most demanding of times and sink 30 foot putts with championships on the line…Others blade 5-irons and leave their partners in untenable situations. That said, his pitch on hits the flag and the ball stops a gut wrenching foot away…come on, if you aren’t going to chip it in from there don’t even come out here. Our opponents get on but have a long put for a 6, leaving no choice but to give it a strong run, comes close but goes past. Now I once again stand over a putt for the win…a down hill 12-inch tester. I take a deep breath, gird my attractive loins, take the putter back and with one shaky stroke demonstrate Dave is not capable of following his own directions. We are repeat Norbeck Member-Guest Champions!
Once again, Norbeck demonstrates the class I have come to expect. The two guys we just played could not have been more gracious. Everyone plays hard to win, but the way all have responded to the good fortune that has graced Dave and I have been incredible. I am very proud to have the honor of being a small part of Norbeck’s history.
Ex-Bell Guy 