“Pre”-Musings:
Although I usually leave the night before the practice round, this year I was playing in a one-day member-guest at my club so I couldn’t get away until Thursday morning. How did that work out? Well, I brought my buddy Doug who’s a great guy and usually an excellent golfer. Unfortunately, he came in as an 8, played like a 15 and was dreading seeing this come out in print. I kid, he actually played like a 20…regardless, we won second net and had a great time.
Musings:
So, while in transit Thursday morning, Dave informs me I need to pick him up somewhere other than his house. Not good. First, my Bluetooth was only receiving calls and not letting me make any hands free…small problem when motoring on 95 South. Second, Dave says to call him in a half-hour because he’s on a conference call for a job he isn’t supposed to start for another week and unavailable to “bullshit” with me until it’s over. Part of that “bullshit” was me asking for some worthless information, like where the hell I’m supposed to meet him, a minor detail and completely understood…if you know Dave.
So, as expected, I go off-course and have to endure the wrath of Ryan. Why? Because after finally getting through to his cell, he tells me I should have taken route 32 not exit 32. I didn’t think to ask exit or route when I initially called due to the fact I was still in Delaware and expecting Dave to answer when I called at the designated time. This is what happens when you have a neurologic condition, you actually start thinking Dave will answer his cell…good God, I’m worse than I thought.
After a brief shit-storm regarding whose fault it is…obviously mine (?) for not subliminally reading his mind which, of course, if one did, all they would find would be a cavernous hollow…he begins flipping back and forth between his call (for a job he hasn’t started yet) and telling me I should turn left on some street in two miles…after five I’m getting a little worried but then realize he’s measuring in “man miles” the opposite end of the “man inches” scale and not in USDOT increments. This I understand and 10 minutes later find him in some parking lot, still on the phone … what follows is a 30 minute oration on how I don’t listen (his version) and me frantically working my GPS to find the shortest route home. Eventually satisfied he properly explained how I become “lost” and with my GPS out of juice, I throw him my keys and we’re on our way to the practice round.
Day 1, Practice Round:
As usual I’m pumped as we pull into the club. We’re playing the Biava’s, Pete and his son Jonathan who I haven’t met but have heard much about; tall, good looking, polite, excellent golfer, smart, super job, blah, blah, blah and then I realize he is everything I am not. I consider searching for Rick Karp and the Doc to see if I can play with them instead…no way I’m going to like this kid.
Prior to teeing off, we stop in the bar for de rigueur lunch and vodka-fueling only to find good friend Jim Dooley waiting for us. This guy is the best, a real salt of the earth guy who just happens to live in a great golf community and wear the same size shorts as me. Our entrance elicits a flurry of man hugs and butt slapping, which according to my good buddy Benji, part-time Tijuana Brass band leader and once bearded super attorney, reminds him of the time he went with college pal and MG partner Scott to Bear Week up in Provincetown. It was there he explained, they met up with longtime Bear attendee and NCC Member – Guest regular, Ronnie “D” and his foursome for an “exciting” weekend . . . not that there is anything wrong with that.
Arrive at first tee and I am very disappointed. Pete and Jonathan are already there and instead of wearing his signature pastel short shorts, white belt and man-thong, Pete has a normal belt and, although pastel, muted shorts. Worse, after he bends down to tee up, I don’t see the once familiar “T.” After expressing my displeasure, Pete confides his beautiful wife Cecelia locked him out of her dainties drawer and he didn’t have time to run over to Victoria’s Secret to reload.
Regardless, this was going to be a great day. More group hugs and testosterone venting precedes the tee off, then the best part. Davy hits and it’s smoked. Jonathan hits and blows it by Daddy to just short of the green. Walking back to the cart I overhear him tell his Dad he caught it thick…I am going to like this young man. As a means to break the tension over the whole wardrobe issue, I decide to take him under my wing and begin a long-game improvement plan as I feel he is leaving some yards on the table. First up, is addressing the obvious issue of power loss and the critical role of the Gluteus Maximus. By not fully compressing as he takes his backswing, he is losing both precious yardage and a chance for a more fulfilling love life.
As we pull away, Pete shouts over he’s playing “commando” and I know I’m at the right place. This is pure Norbeck Member Guest…
Highlights of Practice Round:
I come to appreciate just how good a son and young man Jonathan is…he is almost perfect. Only fault I can find, and I’m usually pretty good at this since I personally exemplify most of them, is his unflappable good humor. After four hours of polite, I desperately need a few hours of alone time with Dave crawling up my back bitching about some impending disaster…like running out of jelly doughnuts for the cart guys.
Play less than stellar, which I attribute to driving down the day of and Dave attributes to the fact I just suck, but hit a couple shots well enough to maintain my credibility as Jonathan’s swing coach. Get to 16 and I feel like I’m going to get another one of my bad foot seizures. While not unexpected, there isn’t much to do except ride it out. This time it happens as I’m walking from the green to the cart. Dave, ever observant, asks what’s up when I stop dead halfway back hoping to avoid the now certain onset. I tell him picture a severe charley horse that turns your foot in so bad you can’t walk or sit down…now picture your nuts being slammed in a car door and you pretty much get the idea. He says, “cool,” waits till I limp over and we head to 17.
Arrive at tee box and Davy initiates a dialog with Jonathan that no doubt ends with, “I’m just saying” as I attempt to stretch what is now a full blown seizure by standing on the side of the cart. Pete, seeing I’m in some discomfort, asks if there is anything he can do while his son is nodding and smiling at Dave with a look of pain exceeding mine. I tell him I’ll be OK in a few minutes but he insists on taking my shoe off and massaging my foot. Since the cart is partially blocking their view, all the other two see is Pete, resplendent in pastel shorts, kneeling in front of me and I with a mixed expression of agony and ecstasy. Once finished, I light up a cigar and I’m good to go. Not that there’s anything wrong with that…
*Pete’s actions speak volumes. Jonathan is very lucky to have him for a Dad, almost as lucky as me to have him as a friend. There are so many guys here that help me out, inquire about my health and just generally seem to care that it’s impossible to name them all…it is an overwhelming feeling that I can’t put into words.
More Musings:
A week before the tournament Dave calls to ask if I’m “OK” with moving from the room in the basement…where the chiller of cold beer is located and where I have a private bath, workout room and 80-inch big screen…to some other location. I sense the “ask” is due totally to the fact he is tired of reading about this kind of stuff in the write-ups. Sorry buddy…
More Practice Round:
Finish up and head back to the clubhouse. Did I mention the rain? Not horrible, but in lieu of the normal long drive competition Clark organizes an ARC building competition pitting Pebble Beach, Medinah and Oakmont Flights against the remainder of the field. Competition is halted after the Riley brothers and Kevin Kiely, Leo’s longtime guest, are discovered cavorting with the livestock. In Kevin’s defense he is from Ireland where such behavior is not always frowned upon and is therefore released into Leo’s custody. The Riley’s would have fared equally as well if it weren’t for Terry screaming at one of the sheep that she shouldn’t have accepted the drink if she didn’t know what that meant…
A few guys go back out in the rain for an impromptu driving exhibition…some more are huddled around the fire pit under umbrellas and a few sane ones are inside at the bar. I am so soaked it feels like I’ve soiled myself, which by the looks of things here would not be an uncommon occurrence. Have a couple (?) more drinks and squish over to find Dave…since I can’t hear him I’m naturally concerned. Find him in at the other small pit fire and he’s fully engaged with Leo and Kevin. I imagine how it would be paired up with either…soft brogue, never loud, probably very solicitous and polite. No, couldn’t do it. What game I have would evaporate the first tee shot I didn’t hear something encouraging screamed at me typically during my backswing like, “Can you please do something to help here?” or post-shot, “That’s good for a player of your caliber.” It is worth the thought though, however fleeting.
Pass on the to-go sippee cup and tell Dave it’s time to say adieu and prepare for the official start of festivities tomorrow. Tells me we’re dropping off Benji and Scott so I say something to Scott and he tells me yeah, they didn’t drive because they wanted to ensure they got home safe…let this sink in. So they are getting in my Jeep and letting “Daddy drinks them all” chauffeur the three of us home. Scott to Benji’s castle and the Self-Love Galleria featuring upwards of 50 or so portraits of him with a sparse sprinkling of some other family members and me back to the Ryan Manse.
Incredibly, all make it home with minimal breakage and zero lawsuits.
Arrive half in the bag, wet, tired and dreading what’s next. Due to global warming concerns I packed a little heavy…thermals and a parka in the event I’m stuck at Dave’s for a few months. Hey, it could happen. Unfortunately I can’t find my cute Sherpa Sophia so I’m relegated to singularly humping in enough clothes, drugs and cigars to host a fair sized Roman orgy. I make it to the kitchen and Dave says he wants me to take a room on the second floor of the East Wing. I pull out my map with the highlighted floor plan received at check-in and realize that is where the family sleeps. Unfortunately that is not where I want to…for a number of reasons. Mainly because there are a bunch of 12-year-old girls having a birthday party sleepover up there.
I tactfully remind him who he’s talking to, Brian, not Mickey, therefore, I would really prefer to stay in the dungeon. He caves and says I have a choice, pull-out couch in the old room or, since the bed was moved to another wing and lost in inventory, a mattress on the floor just down from the bar in the same location as the 80- incher and faux gas fireplace. I pick the mattress and Dave says, “Great, I’ll get it ready for you,” which, if you know Dave at all, means, “I’ll get Alice.” So 15 minutes later, after Alice drags the mattress down, makes the bed and says “goodnight,” I tell Dave “good job” and he goes to bed happy. Day one is over and nobody got hurt.
Musing Some More:
I’m just saying…four years ago it was the year of “Daddy”…“Daddy” was either “rolling the rock” or “hitting it far” or “Daddy” was “long,” “hot,” or “on fire”…“Daddy” was everywhere. Three years ago it was every sentence initiated by either “me, me, me” or “I, I, I” and in 2011 it was the year of the “Dude”…“Dude, seriously, dude,” or “Dude, I’m serious” to the point I began saying it as well, like in, “Dude, can you be a bigger dick?” All very funny…maybe…the first time you hear them. But dude, seriously, after enduring his screaming the latest pet phrase over and over and over for 72 hours straight, well it begins to lose its appeal. I’m just saying.
This year I begin to notice a new tagline; one popular on such erudite venues as MTV Beach House Reality or was it Sponge Bob Square Pants? After uttering what he felt was a humorous dig or commentary he would tag on “I’m just saying.” I think I remember Larry the Cable Guy and Jeff Foxworthy doing this bit right before they took up humping reverse mortgages and Xtend male enhancement pills. But either way, I began to sense a new entry to Dave’s ever expanding repertoire.
Day 2, Start of Tournament:
Get up early and go get the doughnuts for the cart boys…look, I don’t mind buying for those guys, they’re nice, and even though they rifle through the bags at the end of the round looking for small change I really don’t have a problem with that. But I really think, since we do this every year, that they are getting spoiled. It’d be nice if, when handing over the four boxes of day olds, just one might verbally express something other than, “What the fu*k, no jelly?”…I’m just saying.
Limp into grillroom for first Dan Smith of day and see one of the nicest guys you could ever meet…no, not Dave and it isn’t a pastry chef from SoHo, it’s the chairman of The Brotherhood of the Cup, Gaetan Brunetto. The Brotherhood was initiated when Gaetan and his partner Luke were waiting on a tee box with us during the 2010 MG. It was a million degrees and someone decided it was a good idea to toast our friendship with shots of beer. Hey, we weren’t going anywhere and it was over 100 degrees. Best part was, after multiple toasting of the Brotherhood, we see a turtle walking by and (retelling this makes me wonder if we weren’t suffering heat stroke) decide it would be a good idea to inscribe, on the turtle’s belly, our bylaws and names…good God, we had to be delirious! So if anyone found a dead turtle it was probably ours and it died of Sharpie poisoning. Anyway, it was great seeing him and his wife Carol, just two of Norbeck’s finest.
Move on to the banquet room for breakfast and immediately get assaulted with man hugs and European cheek kisses from men I see once a year…took three showers last night to remove the handprints from yesterday. I must admit though, it is a nice gesture and one could get used to it. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
Slam quick omelet and order up a fresh Dan Smith, thus fortified, I am ready to go forth and frolic in the downpour now erupting outside.
First match is against par which kind of sucks since you can’t talk during their backswing or disrupt their concentration shouting, “Daddy’s HUGE” or Daddy killed;” the two most effective staples of our winning strategy. Despite our best effort we lose 1 down…I’m sure neither of us really remembers who cost us the point since my goggles fogged up after three holes and I really couldn’t see well but when I asked Dave he politely pointed out it was me. Actually I think he said, “Hey, I’m a 9, it had to be you.”
Match two we play Tim Burke and his partner Mike …complete assholes. OK, seriously? They are. I sent this to Dave for a quick proofread (remember, I have a neurologic disease) and was informed I couldn’t say that…Tim might get upset. This is why Dave doesn’t write this. All I can say is, during the course of our match, which covered two days due to the suspension of play; I really got to know Tim…and he’s an asshole. But in a way men appreciate being called that because it denotes an affection and respect between two well-adjusted men. It’s like when I call Dave an asshole…well, not really like that. Dave can take asshole to a whole other level. So there is my explanation and Tim, if you’re upset please let me know and I’ll write something worse…I love Tim and would probably love Mike if I knew him longer. Had an absolute blast playing those guys…think we waxed them 5 zip…no, that’s not right, we were planning on waxing them but when a semi floated by on 11 we were pulled off the course and put into small boats for the ride back to the clubhouse.
After going to higher ground we hung out for a few hours…same old, same old, more man hugs and people I don’t even know (and I know a bunch) all being nice to me. So nice, I begin to worry they have a pipeline to my doctor and know something I don’t. Take a quick check of my vitals and figure what the hell, checking out here wouldn’t suck…maybe I can get Charlotte to resuscitate me if I keel over. That is if she isn’t preoccupied tracking down the 50 or so completely inebriated guys still there who, due to the rain out of a round and a half, have been drinking heavily for the past six hours. Nonetheless, find way to Jeep and make it home in time for the 11 o’clock news and hear Saturday there’s only a 50% chance of flooding and the threat of tornadic activity has decreased to “maybe.” Hang up wetsuit and go lights out hoping with sufficient rest I can maybe finish this tournament without drowning.
Random Observations:
Joe Boesch’s partner John Moynihan is a great guy. OK, maybe I don’t know him well enough and he’s a moron, but right now I think he’s great. Although we haven’t played together in a while, for a guy who drills teeth all day he has a pretty good outlook. The year we did, play got backed up on 4 so he gave me a quick exam and floss…true story. His partner Joe Boesch, another Maestro of the Molar, was great but lost some swag with me this year. OK, so he has some physical issues…mostly can’t breathe due to some exotic lung disease, which I think also causes ED, but look who’s writing this? I can pretty much go toe-to-toe with any of the guys out here for boutique diseases. What’s my issue with Joe? He used to bring the best Cuban cigars; I smelled him before I ever met him…the aroma of sweet, pungent Cuban tobacco bundled in smooth Connecticut shade wrapper surrounding him drew me like a magnet. Each year on day one we would all meet and exchange cigars, naturally mine were slightly less expensive (say $20 less) equally as good, but I digress. I find Joe this year and ask if he’s smoking…he says no, he can’t breathe if he does…ugh OK, and? I’m still trying to figure out how that precludes him enjoying the abject joy on my face when he would gently lay one in my outstretched hand. Man up for God’s sake, I’m here sucking down grain alcohol and smoking JR Alternatives and how bad am I?
Day 3 Musings:
I’m writing a letter to Footjoy. My almost new Dry Joys are not only still soaked, I think they shrunk two sizes. I guess the warranty might have a problem covering a 1,000 year storm event and the associated madness of playing golf while treading water. Undeterred, I intend to consult with my personal attorney Benji Boscolo later tonight, right after I hear he’s retired to one of the vacant cars in the parking lot. Odd? Not at all. This is just Benji walking the talk. The principals of the Chasen Boscolo firm are renowned ambulance chasers advocates for safe driving. Benji prefers to camp in vacant cars found in the Norbeck parking lot on those rare occasions when he gets over-served. Somehow, this is preferable to calling his lovely wife Shari to come pick him up. While hard to figure, it does nonetheless demonstrate his creativity and yet another application of the safe driving methodology espoused by his firm. I’m hoping this year he’ll find a decent sized SUV to stumble into so we can be comfortable for our consult. Last time he picked someone’s Mini Cooper and was only found because his leg was out the window and there was drool seeping from the front doors…
Day 3:
Due to receiving 4 ½ inches of rain, we are forced to an abbreviated playing schedule, which completely screws Team Ryan-Stark. This would be because Dave, weeks in advance, formulated a precise strategy delineating our Flight competitor’s weaknesses. Example:
- Team 25 (Burke-Sarvi) – Vodka, Gin, Beer
- Team 26 (Hearing-Bonfield) – Vodka, Gin, Beer
- Teams 27 & 28 – All the above
Dave decides we need to use the nuclear option if we want to avoid last year’s results of not winning a single point. So he will hit it far, somewhere near the fairway, and I will play like I’m a plus 2. Missing the Shootout was never in question…
Finish match with Tim and Mike, immediately go 2 down overall…Dave says he’s holding up his end and asks when am I going to start doing mine? Explain to Dave him playing to a 9 would suffice and begin hoping for another seizure since it would be less painful than listening to this.
Next up we have Rob Williams and guest Larry Depace…eventual Flight winners and just real good guys. I suspect Rob and I share a common love of living life large. No Ironman Triathlon’s or P90x Ab Ripper workouts for us. I feel our kinship lends itself more towards enjoying a fine single malt prior to dining on a nice 4 lb. marbled bone-in Porterhouse finished with a 2 lb. slice of apple pie alamode, a Tawny Port from Portugal and good cigar. OK, maybe a JR Alternative works almost as well…
We exchange pleasantries and proceed to scrape out a tie, no blood. I get another seizure and even more shit from Dave who only misses about 4 putts inside what used to be his kill-zone. Team Ryan-Stark is right on track for a huge finish.
On way to our finale match, Dave informs me he has tried to be really nice and therefore doesn’t expect to get boned in any write-up. No worries there…
Last Match:
Meet Chris Hearing and John Bonfield at tee box and find they are great guys…a lot of fun. Dave is charming, funny, self-deprecating…and toasted…has to be to exhibit those traits. I’m just saying…
No sooner get in cart then he informs me we need to crush the life out of them. At this point, I will agree to anything to get this over with and shoot a respectable score. Dave only misses five fairways and a couple of gimme putts and we take 4 from them. In talking with Chris after the match, he shares with me the fact they were willing to be the Pinehurst Flight Piñatas since they were in a bigger rush to get away from Dave than I was…which up till then I thought impossible.
Wrap Up; Finale Musings:
As expected, we don’t make the shootout…tied for second but lost on a match of cards. I kind of find that suspect since all the cards turned to mush after being subjected to near hurricane conditions day one. Didn’t matter to Dave, he says I cost us the opportunity by playing like a 17. I remind him I am a 17 and get, “I’m just saying.”
Having played in a couple of shootouts, I know how stressful it can be and how tough it is to win, so congratulations to a great guy…Mike Oler and his partner Mike Furman. Great job and well deserved!
So when you are fortunate enough to win the Norbeck Member Guest you receive a personalized sport jacket along with the trophy which is a very cool touch. This started the year Dave won (his version) or Dave and I won (the correct version) but there were winners before us. In an effort to make it right, we have been working towards getting one for all past champions and this year we wanted to get Pete Biava his.
Since it didn’t get there in-time for Saturday night, Clark found one from somewhere as a substitute, we grabbed a couple of the “boys.” went outside and he made an impromptu presentation to Pete. I don’t think he has stopped saying “unbelievable” even yet. As happy as he was, I think if we could have gotten one in iridescent orange to match his dress slacks it would have gone over even better. Unfortunately, they were back-ordered due to a heavy run by the Bears up in Provincetown for their wrap-up parade and Ronnie D wasn’t about to lend out his…Pete…we love you brother.
Saturday night is always a mix of fun and sadness. Great to see everyone together yet knowing it is over for another year. Dave and I bring our usual date to the festivities, his brother-in-law and my out-of-state cardiologist Greg Truth. What kind of guy is he? About 15 years ago I took my son to space camp in Alabama and Greg and Margarita were living there while he interned. They had a little apartment and let me stay with them a couple of nights while I was playing the Alabama Trail waiting for my son to finish camp. One night, I get up about 2 a.m. due to having had a bunch of beers earlier with Greg, and as fate would have it I bump into him in the hall…he looks at me, I look at him, and he says “beer?” I say “sure”…and that’s the kind of guy he is…the best.
As Dave, Chris and I work our way out, I am saying good-bye to people I see once a year and it saddens me. Get almost out and come across a small gathering of friends sitting by a fire pit and I start making my way around. Craig Grayson, such a gentleman and good guy I can’t stand it…thanking me (again) for contributing to his champion’s jacket. Rob Williams our flight winner is there, asking how I’m doing since I had another foot seizure when we played them. (I’ll be talking to Rob off-line since I didn’t see him rushing over to massage my foot like Pete did) and then there’s Leo and his partner Kevin Kiely. Apparently Pete Biava’s wife Cecilia was visiting Ireland and somehow got invited to stay with Kevin and his family. Don’t know the details and neither does Dave, which is of little importance because what Dave does hear is “stayed for free,” “beautiful place,” “incredible golf course” and he is off to the races. So as we’re saying goodbye, Dave nonchalantly mentions how much he LOVES Ireland and would GIVE ANYTHING to go there and PLAY GOLF if only he KNEW SOMEBODY who might show him around…that’s as nonchalantly as I’ve ever seen him. Naturally Kevin, the consummate gentleman, says, “Gee, you know I live there, maybe you could visit?”
A look of feigned shock, some blah, blah, blah and Dave says, “Wow, I LOVE Ireland that would be just great! We could stay with you (KNOW SOMEBODY)…for free…and you could take us (?) to your course so we could PLAY GOLF…and you could take us around…maybe to some other golf courses…and then I could say I’ve been to Ireland!”
So that’s it, we’re going. Why? Because (Dave says) we were INVITED…Kev, I apologize. I only live a couple of hours away, in New Jersey for God’s sake, and I can’t bring myself to invite Dave…
Out, Over, Done, Finis’
I trust I properly conveyed the festivities which took place at the 2013 Member-Guest, that I didn’t piss-off Tim Burke (I doubt it) and that I make it back for next year’s circus.
Thank you Dave for having me, I don’t need to say anymore…
Ex-Bell Guy 