2018 Norbeck Member – Guest

Setting the Stage

2017 was a tough year . . . physically and mentally. I had undergone shoulder surgery in November and was informed playing in the MG would put at risk any chance I had for a full recovery.

As we all know the shoulder is a large joint hosting a myriad of muscles; the most common of those being the rotator cuff . . . the one I managed to tear . . . again . . . as well as my once formidable biceps . . . gone . . . and a dozen or so other nondescript, but useful, tendons deemed “collateral damage” by my highly touted surgeon Dr. Jack Kevorkian.

I was also fighting another issue. This one began innocently enough . . . an insatiable desire to hang out in the Trenton Barrio and take up salsa dancing. My form, initially described as white-guy pedestrian, was painful . . . literally. When my meds aren’t working (more often than not) my feet become glued to the ground, my legs, unable to process the frenetic efforts of thousands upon thousands of neurons trying to synch the brain with the body, begin jerking uncontrollably. . . all to no avail.

But then, without warning, the signals would break through . . . 10’s of thousands of them, all at once. . . like the windup toy you rev up by repeatedly sliding back and forth across the floor as many times as possible then letting go and watching the kinetic energy take over.

Needless to say this new development is not conducive to playing good, marginally good or even shit, golf.

Regardless, I had to call Dave and inform him I was out, a task I was dreading. Daddy does not handle change well; especially the kind that makes him unhappy and this news is sure to do that

My replacement had to be good . . .  

I thought he was . . . a friend of his, already vetted. Someone he knows who possesses game, guts and gonads . . . a guy he would be comfortable handing off to  . . . typically at a critical juncture during the shootout when he finds himself slipping into an alcohol induced stupor.

Yes, I’m talking about good buddy and Rowenta Steam Iron spokesperson Gregg Z.

Although feeling better having secured a stand-in who was a much better golfer I was still harboring second thoughts. I know . . . Parkinson’s, torn muscles, erectile dysfunction and who knows what . . . I’m a load . . . but Z? To anyone else his bona fids are gold . . . received an award for “trying hard” which kind of tells you where his bar is set. He has played in more tournaments than most and has the ‘Runner-up” hardware to prove it. He apparently can play well enough to help Dave get in the shootout, but then, when it’s “go” time . . . when you have to step up and take the reins because your partner has been egregiously overserved, could he hold it together long enough to seize the moment?

Unfortunately, history says no . . .

Wildly divergent theories have flooded the internet trying to explain why . . . for instance the one regarding his maniacal aversion to wrinkles. It postulates that, if having left Dave’s house at 6:15AM Saturday morning, by the time they actually start the elimination process he would have been away from his iron for almost 8 hours . . . difficult enough . . . but factor in he is playing next to a guy who hasn’t met a wrinkle he didn’t like . . . his shoes have wrinkles for God sake. Worse, being in close proximity to Dave who tends to drink more when winning when losing when playing golf with friends relative’s strangers all the time for 6+ hours, enough time for him to have consumed enough beer to fill an average-sized swimming pool, he will have been subjected to Daddy screaming in his face every couple of minutes. The resultant collateral damage (enough particles of food and drink to make a Happy Meal spackled to his once crisp Lacoste 3-button Pima Cotton Golf Shirt) would certainly be of paramount concern in light of his mental fragility.

The final blow would be the discovery of a missing crease in his custom-made NASA Golf Shorts; constructed from a malar-poly-nylon blend first used on the fold-out solar wings of the Hubble space craft.

Of course there are other theories that speak to his excessive use of hand sanitizers . . . implying there may be a more “personal” use of the gooey cleaner . . . not that there is anything wrong with that . . . another getting some traction, although not confirmed, mentions his unhealthy relationship with hair-blowers.

Just a wee bit more Daddy . . .   

Although Dave’s baggage is well documented there is one, troubling trait that truly defines the essence of the man . . . his use of the “daddy” avatar. As an example, “Daddy” is either:

1. Rolling the rock
2. Is huge
3. Is long
4. Is most often out of the fairway

I knew I was only delaying the inevitable . . . so I decided to try one of the vapes given me by Doctor “Ronnie D”, a complex and inspirational man who just happens to dabble in a more holistic and natural approach to healing . . .he is also a walking pharmacy . . ..so after shot-gunning enough cannabis to mellow out a fair-sized pachyderm, I began dialing . . . by the second ring I had to recruit my grandson to hold the phone due to my hands going numb, on the third ring I was confident he would understand . . .

Really??

In hindsight, that right there truly underscores the power of medicinal cannabis . . . that or the significant loss of cognitive faculty I have experienced over the 15 years of having Parkinson’s. Before it could ring the fourth time Daddy picked up.

Our conversation went as follows:

Me – Hey I’m in a bind, the recovery for my shoulder is going to extend beyond June and the surgeon said I could do irreparable harm if I play too early . . . you OK with Z filling in, I checked and he’s good to go?

Dave – No

Me – No? No what?

Dave– No, you need to think of others not just yourself, what better way to end your golf career than by playing with your good buddy . . . what’s your handicap, gotta be a 26? You might get it to 30 if you come wearing a sling, oh, and don’t forget the falling down, that’s money . . . can you at least do that for me?

Me– Goodbye Dave

Dave– Great talk  . . . this is what I do, solve problems.

Me – Goodbye Dave

Dave – Daddy’s Huge!!

In the end he relented . . . but only if I would come down Saturday, watch their remaining matches and bear witness to his greatness  . . . something he promised would be in full display for all to see . . . and which he apparently keeps in hiding when I play with him.

The purpose, as stated in the official summons, was to see first-hand how well “Daddy” could do when supported by a “real partner”.

Apparently my contributions in our winning 3 runner-up championships, 5 flight championships including 2 back-to-back overall championships had somehow conveniently slipped his mind.

So it was that last year Chris Halloran; fellow Verizon survivor, accused felon (grand theft Christmas napkins) and amateur arborist was recruited to bring me . . . and my sling . . . down to MG.

We roll in Saturday 11’ish and immediately are accosted by what appears to be a reenactment of the Star Wars bar scene taking place at the creatively named “Nick’s Pit”. One might think this bacchanal behavior the result of being called to the tee for the final matches which will determine the finalists for the shootout and the eventual winners.

They would be wrong.

This is Norbeck  . . . Mohican for “beer”. The club of Doctor (honoraria) Ronnie “D”, president of the Timothy Leary fan club, a guy named Gaetan who isn’t a pastry chef and one named Nick, a regular on the Sierra Club’s hit list for championing a scorched earth approach to landscaping . . . I could go on but why?

However since this particular edifice is the epicenter of alcoholic overindulgence . . . one can usually find 99% of the participants at the bar, near the bar or on the ground asleep . . . it was the logical start point. Ritualistic man-hugs and sloppy kisses ensue and we haven’t hit noon yet.

Also new this year was my commitment to take a rest from my constant moaning about:

1. Parkinson’s…beaten to death and now old news
2. Lack of quality sleep . . . boring; most men over 50 experience this
3. Lack of quality sex . . . see above
4. Cost of premium HD porn membership to correct 2 & 3

Beg everyone’s indulgence, grab a couple of beers, check the leader board and begin the search for our two heroes’. Initially drive past Dave due to his applying blackface and hiding in the bushes after word of our arrival reaches him. Only found when Z accidentally turned on the portable generator used to power his two 1900 Watt Twin Turbo 3200 Ceramic and Ionic Professional Hair Dryers, selected specifically to maintain a “natural look” favored by most Provincetown boutique maître d’s and a select few NFL interior linemen.

Before we can say “hello” he opens with “Z and I are still working out the kinks” . . . I guess you could put a finer point on it but a fair assessment when you haven’t scored a point in two days.

Turns out Z played to expectations (according to Dave) Dave was great (according to Dave) and together they overachieved as flight Piñatas.

2018 Member Guest

This year’s event was a little different; the two guys sporting Stark caddie vests may have been the first indication things had substantially changed for me. . No, it has nothing to do with my golfing prowess. I know I suck. I am a stumbling, drooling guy with a high handicap who, when the meds are working, can occasionally contribute. However, what I really am is a stumbling, drooling guy who just happens to have an incurable disease that is going to garner him the Carnegie Hero – Courage to Care humanitarian award.

It began two years ago when I brought my walker with me to Dave’s . . . first mistake . . . having Chrissy drop me (and said walker) off at the club . . . monumental fuck-up. Bucking conventional wisdom that he may not be the sharpest stick, Dave immediately realized the opportunity of having a prop to work with.

I remember standing by his locker after the days practice round waiting to die . . . this due to playing in temperatures considered normal only on Venus. Dave was doing what Dave does . . . giving me shit for something when he goes quiet . . . immediately the three hairs on my head stand on edge, Dave . . . quiet??

Then I hear it, probably the last 2 guys to leave . . . not counting Benji who was probably fast asleep in one of the vehicles left in the lot, their owners Uber’d home hours ago.

Dave, poised like a panther about to ambush an unsuspecting antelope, waits until they are positioned perfectly for his strike . . . then it comes and I am helpless . . . mesmerized, unable to do or say anything.

He starts out with “Buddy, don’t get upset buttons are hard to do and you’re tired. . . . let me help”. . . of course I have no buttons . . . then comes “hey, it’s Ok to cry . . .”

WTF? Crying? Who’s crying? And then, the kicker . . . I hear one guy say to his friend “wow, I never saw that side of Dave before” . . . understandable since it doesn’t exist . . .

Fast forward to this year’s event, with all the preparation needed for me to actually play and it’s understandable I forgot the whole thing. No sooner get in and I sense a subtle change . . . couldn’t put my finger on it but there was something . . . that “something” turned out to be a tsunami of “did you see Dave” moments:

“Did you see Dave?”

• “he was incredible. . . Brian was drooling so bad Dave pushed him down and performed mouth-to-mouth to save him from drowning!” In fact Dave pushed me down because I had the misfortune to get between him and the cart girl he hired to pull a refrigerated tow-behind loaded with enough beer to challenge a fair-sized brewery
•  “oh my God . . . he has the patience of Job” “he teed Brian’s ball then helped him back to their cart” Missing from this selfless act of charity is the audio which may have provided some much-needed clarity .. .. Dave :“here, give me the damn tee . . . , I have to piss and you’re killing me” “yes I’ll get you to the cart . . . but if you don’t start doing something you’re on your own”  
• “Brian was short-stepping like he had 4-iron stuck up his ass and Dave gently removed it.” I don’t have a 4-iron . . . he does. 
• “the way he picked Brian up after he fell was so moving” Picking me up was .  . . holding me up like a fisherman does after landing a large Bass . . . wasn’t. He didn’t think I was acting like I had an incurable disease and worried our opponents may have forgotten I had Parkinson’s and challenge my handicap . . .a real Mother Teresa.

Good Stuff

So it was that Z, recently let go as the cause of team Ryan’s quick exit from contention last year, was to be my lead caddie with good buddy Chris Halloran his assistant.

While Z is well known among Norbeck enthusiasts Chris may require a brief introduction. He is best known for his erudite conversations; rapier wit; having a horse farm; indicted for stealing Christmas napkins; role reprising Edward Scissorhands having weekends free. He enjoys pedestrian beers and pruning as a hobby. While most pruning hobbyists work with bamboo or other exotic woods, Chrissy prefers the more mundane spruce, oak or his favorite . . .  the indigenous northern hackberry.

Unfortunately his love of logging caused a bit of a problem this year when, after hitting a huge drive just off the fairway, he led me to my ball. His job done I was surveying my options when, to the collective shock of the gallery, he ventured back in.

There is always a fear when we see him unaccompanied . . . golf course; grocery store . . . doesn’t matter, its trouble. In this case it proved well founded when to everyone’s horror he asks if a particular branch . . . the one he had a death grip on and which, if not careful would have impeded my swing . . . was “in my way” . . . and with that he rips it, Hulk-like from it’s trunk. 

Now aside from being just a wonderful human being, Chris is also multifaceted . . . an asset not lost on Dave . . .  who is not . . . unless one would consider screaming and incoherent mumbling within the scope of the definition. So it’s no wonder Chris has been repeatedly called on to undertake a multitude of Ryan projects either too complicated (hanging a basketball goal over the garage) or those requiring use of complex implements (installing a new screen, opening a container of soup) such as a screw-driver or a can opener. 

Despite all his good work, the moment he broke off that branch  . . . he was a dead man walking.

One of Dave’s better qualities when flirting with sobriety is seizing on something, anything, and tearing it apart like a crazed bull-dog. I have had the pleasure of being the recipient maybe once or twice, could be five or six, every year I have played as his partner and my heart broke for my buddy who had no idea what was about to befall him.

The CERN Particle Accelerator could not match the speed with which Dave spread the news of Chris’s faux pas.

We immediately invoked both “Rule 3b.OB/sec.4” which addresses the physical removal of a natural impediment as well as the universal “don’t be a jerk-off” rule and declared me out of the hole. A devastating blow to team Ryan/Stark since I was just about to go on a double-bogie binge after Dave’s inspiring pep talk . . . “can you play any worse?”

Our competitors, who also witnessed this calamity, were very understanding . . . after agreeing with our initial assessment they logically thought it prudent to take it to a higher authority, just to be safe . . . like if we fired Chris and he picked up with someone else, say Nick who is always looking for illegal aliens arborists to complement his “pit” crew. That way we would be well versed on the subject should it ever happen again.

Deciding to speak first with Norbeck’s Director of Golf, Mike Barillo, who assured them the original call was correct, they felt it would be best to protect Mike in the off chance he might have missed his meds and therefore was incorrect in his interpretation.

We wish to thank them for their unbiased search for the truth and their hard work ensuring the integrity of the game by calling the PGA rules director  . . . who also certified the original call . . . and further suggested they might find it helpful to peruse the other, perhaps more important, universal rule which pre-empts all others . . . just saying.

Condition Red

In all great teams there exists a natural ebb and flow . . . a time when one must recognize the need to step up and accept the mantel of responsibility and a time to relinquish it for the good of the team . . . with great teams that timing is coincident, with good teams it is recognized but not refined . . .  with all others it remains a mystery.

That is not how Team Ryan rolls . . . we prefer a more singular approach. Dave, eschewing all scientific evidence to the contrary, believes the better of the 2 players, as determined by a rather benign algorithm factoring percentage of shots in fairway, consistency tee to green and mental toughness, be the fulltime Man with Mantel.

Fortunately I wasn’t interested in the position so it worked out fine . . .

Unfortunately implementing this strategy comes at a steep cost, putting an incredible strain on the mantel bearer which, in our case, results in an understandable need to over-imbibe. I have witnessed the deleterious effects of this condition maybe once or twice, could be five or six, every year I have played as his partner and know first-hand the disastrous consequences possible if not quickly addressed.

The modus operandi established specifically for Dave stipulates immediate activation of established Drunk-con protocols. If able to immediately initiate remediation procedures focused on monitoring his alcoholic intake, while introducing a 1-to-1 beer to water regimen . . . there is a chance to reintroduce a modicum of sobriety giving Team Ryan renewed life.

At most other clubs it would be difficult at best, Norbeck? Virtually impossible . . .

This due to an intense lobbying effort led by Norbeck’s Ground Beautification Committee, chaired by social activist and Stone Hedge High Priest Nick Bobruska. When not scheduling alien rituals he successfully introduced passage of an addendum to the Norbeck Master Plan mandating by 2020 no member will ever be more than 50 yards from a Social Services Stand (see “Fire pit/Tiki bar/Alcohol).

Adding to the challenge are the omnipresent “cart girls”, although young those working at Norbeck have undergone enough intense physical and psychologic training to qualify as Navy Seals. When paired with a reliable vehicle having sufficient cold storage it is entirely possible for them to generate enough unreportable income to fund all secondary and specialized tuition costs in three days.

Capable of understanding the nuanced needs of Member Guest attendees, comprised mostly of wealthy middle-aged men who desperately want to believe the overt flirting they are receiving is due to their witty repartee, delivered in a manly slur and accompanied by flying spittle. Others can be found sporting the gold-standard “Just For Men” jet-black hair on their head . . . boldly stating virility . . . complemented by the large patch of sweaty grey hair sticking out of their shirt . . . screaming stupidity. Of course there are always alternatives for when you don’t have time to dye . . . my favorites include the sleeve of ProV1’s (Bridgestone may be substituted if in a pinch) jammed down their shorts looking to all the world except them as a sleeve of balls jammed down their shorts . . . or the ever popular method of tipping using a roll of $1’s covered by a single $50 held in the hand attached to the wrist sporting a faux Rolly.

Here is where the true Dave Ryan stands above the rest. His philanthropic work on behalf of funding advanced degrees for these underprivileged young ladies does not receive the attention it should . . . that’s all I have to say about that.

A Bit of Bad Behavior

OK it’s Day 2 of this year’s event so let me recap our last round pairing with the nice farther and son team the O’Keefe’s. Daddy has entered the irrevocable hammered stage and I have initiated Drunk-con 3 emergency action protocols. Fortunately I had Z and Chrissy ready to assist . . . after convening a quick mind share exercise we began implementing our remediation plan; as soon as Dave would open a beer Chris or I would distract him and Z would dump it out. . . . quickly realize throwing beer away is never a good idea  . . . doing it at a Norbeck Member Guest and you risk serious injury. Initiate back up plan . . . when Daddy gets a beer, Chris or Z drink as much as they can while ensuring color integrity, filling the remaining cup or can with water.

After consuming 5 or 6 of the diluted beer I get: “Starkie … grab the cart girl, I’m going to need a couple more beers these are going down like water . . . Daddy’s getting . . . HAMMERED!!” Whereupon I would gently remind him we were close to getting in the shootout and I needed him to retreat back to the comfortable 1.5 to 1.7 BAC which seems to be the “go” zone for “daddy”.

This was the critical tipping point . . . .it could go either way.

As it turned out what actually turned it around for us were the unsuspecting O’Keefe’s themselves. When we met them on the 1^st tee of our match Dave was in full “Daddy” mode . . .that is when he is at his most obnoxious. He’s telling them what he truly believes are hilarious stories and anecdotes; what they were hearing was an incoherent stream of consciousness. Where our opponent’s went wrong was by politely laughing. That was all it took to ratchet Daddy to a whole new level, he fancies himself quite the comedian and with a supportive audience it’s all but over.

The next couple of holes were difficult to watch as ‘Daddy” took his show on the road . . . actually walking alongside their cart and, while I can’t be certain, regaling them with a mix of his take on current events a pending oil change and an upcoming colonoscopy.

He was slowly coming back . . . unfortunately not in time for our stalwart competitors . . . Daddy’s verbal dysentery took them completely out of their game. By the last hole they were twitching worse than me and praying it would soon be over. Class guys, would like to play them again . . . alone.

Daddy is now in perfect form to make the final push for the Shoot-out . . . .

Shoot-out

Here’s a brief recap of our participation in the finals . . . played hard; played well . . . for a while . . . then I either remembered I had Parkinson’s or forgot how to hit a wedge and chunked our chances out the window.

Seeing as this was another opportunity to redefine himself Dave says to me, in his indoor voice, “seriously, could you suck any more?” then turning to the horde of onlookers he says in his outdoor voice “you played well for someone with your skill set, don’t feel bad” . . . which for him amounted to high praise.

Notables

This year perennial good guys the Riley Brothers won their flight and I couldn’t have been happier. These boys represent all that is good at Norbeck. They possess a self-deprecating sense of humor, are polite and quick to offer a helping hand (at least when sober or about 2% of their time at MG). I have always felt their participation was more an annual pilgrimage; almost a religious event where they come to pay homage to whomever is currently overserving them, entertaining one and all with cutting insight on current events and sleeping “al fresco” under the stars.

As I was leaving and while waiting for the car to be brought around I noticed an odd sight . . . someone actually walking worse than me. My first thought was to check for Dave’s 4-iron, but I’m pretty sure it was just Jimmy Riley celebrating their excellent finish by drinking some hi-octane intoxicant out of their cut glass trophy . . . good for you boy’s!

I would also like to recognize two other first-time flight winners and two of the best guys out here, Leo Ring and Kevin Kiley.

Congratulashuns lads it’s aboyt bleedin time what!! Bang on heh, who??

I think my urging Leo to wear his magic lime green shorts played a big part in their success this year . . . 

But what do I know . . .?

Thanks, again

I know I love you guys, all of you.

No one knows what lies ahead but I am comforted by all the incredible memories I have from my time here. Thank you Dave for that invite so many years ago and for your unwavering concern for me . . . and thank you all for your selfless and sincere acts of kindness . . . even a word-dick like me can’t find one’s capable of expressing how much I appreciate all you do.

Yeah, as if this POS isn’t long enough already . . .

Standing ovation?

I didn’t know until my wife told me on our way home that Sunday. Now my wife is tough, when I was diagnosed my neurologist said I should do what I want now and not wait since there was no cure for this disease. To which my wife replied “this is the perfect disease for Brian, he’s done whatever he’s wanted since I knew him” . . . and she was choked up telling me.

Dave and I don’t deserve a standing ovation . . . we’re just doing what we have done since we first met . . . having fun with friends, laughing at stupid shit like this write-up and being thankful for all our blessings . . .like having all the friends we have here at Norbeck . . .  but thank you nonetheless . . . never had one and when I do I don’t even know it . . . could I be a bigger loser?

The Game Changer By a Junior Golf Colleague

Last week at my junior golf league meeting the fourth time, we were doing one team verses another, and you wouldn’t be surprised if you met me but guess what, I SUCKED!! Then the previous time, I SUCKED!! Then the second meeting, I SUCKED!! Then, obviously, on the debut, guess what, I Ss-WAIT!! You say it. “YOU SUCKED!!” Thank you. Before I got signed up for the Olde York Country Club Junior Golf League me and my Poppop Brian sometimes played the nine courses, and you know, had pros and cons, success and failure, a beautifully shot and an ironic ear-steaming balls rolling just over the horizon of the flag hole. Usually I did a pathetic job, but you should’ve seen me on the putting green last week, coordination loss, rule-breaking, coordination of speed loss, and all those hokey mishaps. And my partner was like the best out of nineteen kids, “Stretch” was his nickname. Mine was Coca Cola. I would repetitively grunt and mutter after any minor setback, such as my stupid ball swiftly plummeting down a petit putting green hill. If there was a trophy for best golfer of the day I would get a tiny piece of Hershey’s Dark Chocolate with a white sticker you see on delivered boxes and it would say #19. Last night, Suckerville moved to be another village, and was StrongImprovementDale. Me and my younger partner, whose nickname was Wail. He had this repetitive and bad habit of constantly putting his knees on the ground, and didn’t have the “perfect” or atleast a satisfactory attention span. But anyway, my speed improved, and was perfect as I had to hit my ball just several yards away and over a bunker. It was perfect speed, and halted just feet away from the flag, right after it bounced off the flag, unexpectedly. On the driving range, I believe my farthest shot was probably a few inches or so down the peak. He taught us about pretending our head was in a vist, our hinge being a 90 degree angle out and high to our side. My Poppop Brian was so proud.

 

 

 

 

2016 Member Guest

Mid-May 2016

OMG, he needs an aspirin!

Just hung up with Dave . . . it’s always a challenge getting my 2 cents in before he consumes the conversation. As usual he politely asked how I was doing and before I could get a word out tells me he is fighting a neck strain. Geez that’s awful … a strained neck . . . I feel the need to remind him who he’s speaking with but refrain, so he then says as if this were a life-threatening event he needed two, TWO Aleve to get any relief at all.

OMG!

Now I have known Dave for almost 30 years and would say, next to my doctor he knows pretty much all that ails me . . . and I must say, it’s an impressive list . . . herniated disc’s, blown-out shoulders, completely reconstructed ankle, elevated blood pressure, incontinence and ED . . . and those don’t even qualify for the first page. I also ingest enough pills before breakfast to stock a mid-sized pharmacy, a handful more at lunch and by diner don’t know where or who I am.

But being his buddy and knowing he played in a tournament I solicitously ask how he was able to fight through the miasma of pain he surly was in if he had to take TWO Aleve. What do I get? A huge estrogen fueled girly sigh . . . after which he says “It was awful, I shot 81”. . .

I am stunned and need to compose myself so not to alarm him . . . he’s a Benji-esk 6 posing as an 11 and shoots 81 which if my calculations are correct is spot-on if he were a 9. Conversely I’m a 20 playing like a 40 feeling like I’m 80 and I refuse to moan . . . much.

However let it be known I love Dave, despite what I write. To complete the (true) story when he relinquishes the floor I casually mention I was having some issues with my balance and how it’s affecting my walking causing me to fall. To which Dave tells me in his “I’m almost interested” voice . . . “yeah, that must suck, try a couple of Aleve”.

Speaking of which

I actually also use Aleve prior to playing golf but because I take pills for everything else; shaking, falling, drooling and standing erect …speaking of which, if I want anything else erect I need even more pills…do so as a last resort.

Interesting aside, I think my wife puts Aleve in my Viagra bottle. Since they are indistinguishable from one another what usually happens after 30 minutes (recommended wait time for increased blood flow to wake the sleeping giant and pave the way for an incredible 5 – 10 seconds of intense lovemaking) is: I get nothing. Not even a flutter. Actually what I get are pain-free joints coupled with a strange desire to mow grass. Did I mention we have the most manicured lawn in our development …

Norbeck CC – A view from outside in

When first introduced to Norbeck I was expecting a conservative Republican enclave replete with well-heeled members…mortgage brokers, national news figures, financiers, etc.…scions of industry and politics.

The first “scion” I met was John Bjorn a very successful business owner who has a proclivity for showing off his enormous testicles by letting them “breathe” while having breakfast. No big deal, probably relaxes Board members while discussing mergers and acquisitions. Next up is Dave’s brother-in-law Danny who, while recently recognized for his professional work, is much better known for a drink bearing his name. Unfortunately his status within the professional circle which honored him took a small hit after he decided it would be a “good idea” to personally engage in “quality control” by slamming the first 20 Dan Smith’s in production… then attempt to drive home…apparently his “do you know who I am?” defense fell a little short with the patrolmen who found him asleep in his car…a prudent act considering the circumstances unless, of course, one finds it unacceptable to do so in the middle of an intersection. Defending him is my all-time favorite 1-800-LAWYER, personal trainer, Herb Albert look-alike and Uber golfer, Benjie Boscolo. While weighing in at a pre-anorexic buck and a half he nonetheless out-drives most of the participants in the field…even “daddy hits it far” has been bested, not that he would remember…actually neither of them would. Benjie due to his enjoying the social aspect of the Member-Guest possibly more than most and who has been known to consume his body weight in Vodka usually just after Thursday’s practice round…well sometimes Friday’s opener …did notice once or twice Saturday’s award ceremony every day and Dave? Well because he’s Dave. Then there’s Tim Burke; a wonderful and caring man who for some reason felt the need to constantly hug me while planting sloppy kisses on my cheeks and telling me how much he loved me. I figured the cause of this affection was either Dave telling him how bad I was doing and how he (Dave) was considering a sabbatical from his job to help Sally give me my much anticipated twice weekly sponge baths…or the fact he imbibed 30 beers while playing 27 holes in temperatures rivaling those typically not seen outside a blast furnace. I was only a little worried when I noticed he and longtime partner guest, Gordon Williams, spent an inordinate amount of time searching for “lost balls” . . . not that there is anything wrong with that. Last, but far from least, there is a wannabe pastry chef (Gaetan Brunetto) masquerading as an insurance salesman who went on to win acclaim writing the by-laws of a secret society on a turtles belly…and these represent the more “normal” ones.

Of course, they’re all still there…but someone new is beginning to challenge this elite group for a seat at the big table. I first heard his name when Dave called to solicit $100 so I could help some member apparently named “Nick, great guy” build another bar. When I ask who’s Nick? I get “Nick? Great guy,” which if you’re building a bar at Norbeck, I should have expected…still, if this is the latest phrase du jour it’s better than “seriously dude, serious” or onetime crowd favorite “just saying”… you’d have thought by now Dave would have outgrown MTV but to each their own.

Regardless, when Dave asked for the donation I politely explained I was planning to give $100 to my grandson who was going to the shore so he could spend it on fun things like rides, souvenirs and junk food. Dave tells me that certainly would be considered an “option” . . . how nice . . . but my contribution here would be much more appreciated since it would help defer the rising costs of getting hammered, retaining counsel to defend making inappropriate comments to the female staff and, most important, augment efforts to pay-off the home in the Cayman’s “Nick?, great guy” bartered for in-lieu of anymore “embarrassing” cash payments. When I ask where they are going to put this bar I am told “it’s in development” and work is underway determining the “right” spot. Apparently one member, a scion of broadcast media, reached out to contacts developed over years reporting on the Pentagon and managed to secure the use of several military satellites. These will be re-targeted to triangulate longitude and latitude to an optimal spot so when complete no member will ever be more than 50 feet from alcohol.

Judging from past Member-Guest’s this wouldn’t seem a priority since 95% of the field is usually inebriated by the third hole of the practice round. But Norbeck has a fairly unique clientele, Pavlovian really. To ensure their laser-like attention one only needs to mention the word “liquor”, a fact fully understood by “Nick, great guy” who brilliantly married it to all his “beautification” proposals rendering any resistance futile.

I later learned Nick was telling everyone the reason he wanted to build this latest edifice was a desire to “give back”. In fact giving back did have something to do with it since the more likely scenario is a customer decided not move on a project and “gave back” the materials he had already paid for allowing Nick to “resell” or, when discussing his latest buildout plans with Norbeck’s crack Grounds Committee members, “heavily discount” the cost of said materials in exchange for even more work. I just checked with Zagat’s and Norbeck CC has been relisted as a “Quarry” which just happens to have 18 holes of golf  . . . which is playable if you can find any grass.

Currently possessing more decorative rocks then Stonehenge, the Coliseum and the Vatican combined; Nick is on the verge of transforming Norbeck from a lush beautifully laid out golf mecca to something challenging the Great Wall of China for number of bricks, pavers and stone used for a single project. Of little interest to the throngs mobbing the bars or roasting their nuts at the multitude of fire pits (my last visit I thought I was in purgatory; everywhere I turned there was fire…although on second thought it probably serves as a good introductory for many of the members, easing them into their final destination) is the pending sale of the club to a consortium. Curiously this follows closely the trajectory of Nick’s “giving back.” Of course any correlation between that and the “improvements” he suggested/sold and implemented is merely a coincidence.

You have to hand it to those Norbeck boys, they have their priorities right…and Nick Bobruska? Great guy!

The gift of Parkinson’s

I mention this only because I’m looking for sympathy, a preferred parking spot and more strokes during Member-Guest it has relevance to my attending this year’s event. So, as the disease continues to encroach on my ability to be self-sustaining, I find my friends continually trying to help. Most do it when I’m in their foursome just to speed up the pace of play but then there is Dave. This is why he is so good at whatever the hell it is he does for a living. He seizes opportunity…he knew a couple of years ago I would soon become even more dependent on others for little things… getting dressed, carrying a plate…breathing. Sensing this could be huge for him he starts helping me in and out of the cart during Member-Guest…but curiously, only when others are there to witness this selfless act. Unnoticed is his subsequent action once in the cart; like driving 100 yards past my tee shot despite gentle reminders, such as striking him with a 7-iron (another case of my “under-clubbing), to let me out. After hitting I walk back to find him still circling in the high junk for “daddy hit it far…somewhere” and get, “You could’ve helped me look…just saying”…vintage Dave.

This year promised to be a watershed opportunity for Mr. Sensitive as I have added some very attractive symptoms to compliment my already exciting repertoire. A few months back I was talking with Dave saying how my foot seizures were getting worse and he replies I need something “new” to whine about as everyone is tired hearing the same old shit. Figuring this is as close to sympathy as it gets with him I agree and decided I would try a new drug recommended by my Neurologist which would address the crippling seizures, grow new hair and drop me from heavy weight to cruiser class. After an initial up tic in my situation I discover all I had accomplished was to “trade in” my crippling foot seizures for the ever popular “sticky feet syndrome” one of the more debilitating and painful options and one I was hoping not to get primarily because I’m vain and it makes me look old, debilitated and helpless…OK, just like I was before I took that shit.

So when I cruised in to this year’s Member-Guest I was (still am) working on the perfect cocktail of neurologic drugs. Better yet, I was also dragging along a walker my neighbor gave me which is helpful whenever things get hairy and which I wasn’t going to advertise since it really signifies I am losing ground to this thing which I will not let beat me (inspirational huh? what? right?)

Necessitating a logistical exercise similar in scope to that employed for the D-Day invasion I invite good buddy Chris Halloran up to play golf at my club for two days prior to MG and then Thursday morning have him drive me to Norbeck where he will hand me off to Dave. Once the event is over my wife will drive down and attend the banquet after which we go back to Dave’s and make love all night we drive home Sunday.

We do, he does and we won’t, so it is late Thursday morning we’re at Norbeck eating, drinking (of course) and it’s like I never left. As the crowd thins in preparation for the practice round I ask Dave where he’s parked so we can transfer my wardrobe for the week from the U-Haul I rented and Chrissy towed down to his family van. It was then Dave realized either he didn’t have a car, lost his car or someone to stole his car; the end result being the same he says just dump it all by his locker. As I normally pack enough clothes to last me into winter I am not happy with this news, worse, I had the walker with me. I begin to say something but too late . . . he’s discovered what he believes is the Rosetta stone, the Chalice and Holly Grail rolled into one and begins carrying around my neighbor’s walker desperately looking for someone to impress with his caring. First guy he sees is Chris Haberman, great guy and good buddy. Dave walks up and waits for him to ask what he’s doing with a walker…thankfully Chris is more concerned with unrest in the Balkans and the impact on medical marijuana and therefore oblivious to Dave’s blatant flaunting of my hardware. Next up is Benjie but when he asks if that’s for Dave’s “bad” neck and suggests he number it as evidence Dave gives up and throws it in the pile by his locker…

2016 MG officially underway

I know this sounds horrible and people will say it couldn’t be because they watched as Dave would tenderly lead me to the car each night after the festivities wound down and how about that truly heart rendering speech after winning our second Member-Guest or his offering me his arm after teeing off to prevent my falling down?

Bullshit, bullshit…and more bullshit.

In fairness, I’m sure Dave wants me to live a few more years because the worse I get the better he looks and at the moment he’s Brad Pitt, George Clooney and Bradley Cooper rolled in one. Frankly, I’m considering checking out early just to deprive him of such honoraria…but I digress. The trigger point for me was a conversation I had with Grant Grayson this year after finishing Thursday’s practice round. Well, we didn’t really finish because we never actually started  . . . doesn’t matter.

As usual, after playing I’m shot and all I want is something cold to drink and a comfortable chair. As he is gently lifting my tired ass out of the cart (obviously people were present) he says, “Just put everything on my number, I got it” which would have been nice except “everything” was already included in the tournament…however, since most of the field had imbibed a tanker truck worth of Vodka drinks that small, insignificant fact went unnoticed. So he drops me off at the latest Bobruska boondoggle “Nick’s Bar” (really? this is the best they can do? Nick’s Bar?) where the temperature is a chilly 87 degrees and since this is Norbeck some meathead has a fire going at “The Nick Pit” (another display of Norbeckian creativity) located at a spot which once was a bucolic half-acre of manicured grass-land.

Now Grant Grayson is probably the nicest guy in the entire world…really…and completely out of his environment here…more really. His brother Craig, member emeritus at The Beck, is also one of the nicest guys in the world just a scooch less aristocratic than his brother the Prince. Both are past winners. In fact, I believe they were the first winners of this storied event but, as Dave likes to say, “If you can’t win this more than once you shouldn’t be recognized.” As for me, I frankly can’t stand either one of them…they’re so perfect and I have so many flaws and have done so many terrible things including harboring carnal thoughts of Charlotte this year, I have no business talking to either of them. Truth be told, I think King Grant is more sought after because he belongs to a couple of high-end clubs around Richmond so whenever he shows up it’s like throwing chum in the water for the Norbeck sharks all trying to suck up and get a round in.

Reminds me, Grant, we still on for the fall?

So I no sooner sit down and “His Perfectness” leads with how moved he is by the way Dave has been taking care of me…really, moved? I should have moved, but didn’t feel like fighting the crowd of Riley brothers congregated in the middle of the nicely paved patio sucking beers and saying how nice it is to have another place to drink after getting flagged at the main bar.

My exit blocked, I calmly begin my rebuttal offering for his consideration a North Jersey staple when engaging in any argument regardless the topic, “Are you f’ing nuts?” Sensing by the number of inches his eyes bulged out, I quickly deduced my choice of descriptive phraseology was absent his vocabulary causing him to be momentarily stunned. Sensing my opening may be short-lived I dive into the heart of my thesis. I’m on a roll and feel I have him on the cerebral ropes promising when I’m done he will clearly see the error of his ways and that my getting Parkinson’s was the best thing that happened to Dave since they started putting elastic in XL baseball caps.

Laser-focused on overturning his obvious misconceptions I explain what is missing is a true reconstruction of events substantiating my claim. In support of my position I pull out a chart published by the US Geological Society replete with color-coded dots depicting where each offense occurred quickly followed by a reference to my stellar academic bona fids. . . four years at the nationally respected Bordentown Regional HS where I garnered a much sought after diploma (due in part to the teaching staff who unanimously petitioned the board claiming any further effort to teach me would be futile and would matter little to my eventual career in the food service industry) and later at the prestigious (now defunct) Top Gun business course sponsored by (now defunct) Bell Atlantic.

Ten minutes in and I’m cruising, Perry Mason would be impressed…I enumerate all that is wrong with his perception providing an example so basic even he would have to concede…last year’s MG…Thursday night as festivities were winding down…Dave and I at his locker packing up when we hear a group stumbling our way… worried they will see us before he has a chance to parlay the opportunity, he offers the following in his out-door voice:

“Brian let me button that for you; I see you are having trouble”…referring to a sleeve I was wearing which, of course, didn’t have buttons.

“Brian, I see you can’t walk, wait here and I will find a wheel-chair to push you in.”…thoughtful . . . yet not, for if a wheelchair were found his pushing it would have been a bit difficult due to the 3 beers and a to-go cup he was juggling along with my walker. Adding to his dilemma was our escape route took us past yet another of the Bobruska monuments, the selflessly named and extraordinarily creative “Nick’s Bar”……where he would be picking up at least another 4 for the ride home.

Nonetheless I execute a flawless close weaving in all the speculative evidence, calling Benjie, Mickey and Leo as supportive witnesses, wipe the sweat off my face, sit back down and wait for the thunderous applause sure to follow. That I’m still waiting has little relevance on the truth and merely demonstrates the egregious lack of social norms wherever it is Mr. Perfect is from.

I turn to my witnesses and find Benjie has discovered he is dangerously close to becoming sober, immediately recuses himself from further testimony and goes in search of refueling and Mickey, apparently not getting the memo schools are closed for the summer and he is now married, leaves to stake out the bus stop across from the club.

Thankfully Leo is still here and says what I thought was, “Grant he’s right, it’s obvious…even to me.” Unfortunately, after reading through the transcripts what he actually said was, “Grant, ya may be a hrrses arse, right,what? “But e drools like me wee granderter…heh, who?” “so I’m with you…beer? hey, what ? right?”

The perfect gentleman to the end, Father Grant replete with custom ordered Bruno Magli “apre golf” slide-on’s, complementing natty vineyard vines chinos and a black wife beater, extends his hand and says, “Stupid is a learned trait…you obviously had a good teacher.”

OK, I got that going for me.
Back to Me

I mention this only because I love talking about me, want Charlotte to give me a hug have been fighting the last three months with doctors trying to get my medication right and in the process have discovered something new. Apparently my high school diploma qualifies me to deal with my Harvard Medical School alumni doctor on a peer basis and prescribe medications possessing the ability to…well…kill you. Upon seeing my doctors at University of Pennsylvania, I am given “new” drugs to combat the further deterioration of my motor skills. After our initial consult they say stop the drug dosed at 3 pills a day which are causing the foot seizures and try the new drug calling for 4 pills, 4 times a day. I was a bit hesitant until I learned they come with a convenient 5-pocket backpack to carry them in. Although not happy, I’m a gamer (being Dave’s partner for 12 years I can pretty much take anything in stride) and say I’ll give it a go. Two weeks in, no more seizures! Unbelievable! However, like being Dave’s partner, I am also used to being let down and broken hearted which is what happened when I discovered although my seizures were gone I had developed an unusual desire to Salsa dance shuffle my way around the house. Sally ever the optimist quickly realized the benefit possible and glued Swiffer duster pads to my slippers resulting in our hardwood floors never looking so good. . . .

She’s happy, I’m not.

What’s actually happening is whenever I start to walk; the only part of my body getting the message is my upper half. It being the larger half of the Stark load, it begins to “stride” solo…this doesn’t sit well with my legs and feet, which metaphorically say “f*ck off” (another Jersey euphemism) to the torso and refuse to cooperate. The continuation of this stalemate causes ones feet to jerk spasmodically while shouting “ole!” until the lower half finally gets in gear. Once engaged and feeling it has missed out on some fun the lower body decides to over-accelerate necessitating a quick stomping down of the lead foot to avoid the ever popular falling into something usually not built to withstand the unexpected onslaught of 230lbs of Stark muscle ass. I fight with this for about a week then develop an incredibly painful case of tendonitis in my right Achilles tendon and although used to severe pain (see Ryan, Dave partner) this is up there.

So I call my doctors back and ask what I should do…they say, “Try 3 pills, 4 times a day and see if that works”…do and it doesn’t.  I call back again and ask what I should do…they say, “Try taking 1 of your old meds with 4 of your new meds 4 times a day and see if that works”…do and it doesn’t. I call back…again…and ask what I should do…they say, “Try 1 of your old pills and 3 of your new pills 4 times a day” and I do and, of course, it doesn’t do shit except make we want to sleep, which isn’t bad except it occurs only when driving.

So I call them . . . again . . . and relay my displeasure with things in the only way I know how, by politely telling them I am tired of this shit and am becoming very cranky so here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to try a couple of different combinations and will let them know…and they say OK.  OK? I’m a high-school graduate whose medical training encapsulates a two-hour safety meeting I attended when an installer for NJ Bell. OK??

Ok it is. However, not being a total idiot, I do ask if there is risk of any notable downsides to my strategy…like death…once cleared of that hurdle, I was on my own. Now, in their defense, that’s how this disease works…it’s not the same for everyone, more of a “boutique” disease which I like, not run of the mill but something to get you noticed.

To be continued …

November 30, 2016

Ok, it’s been three or four months and I am out of work so decided to try and finish this piece of shit so I can smoke the Cuban cigar Danny Wolf gave me after securing my commitment to write a recap. I was going to smoke it when I got it but felt dirty because I promised I would send him this first thus demonstrating once again what a true idiot I am.  Where were we? So far it’s been me, me, my Parkinson’s and me again . . . perfect.

So we win our flight which is always great and this year it was largely due to Dave and his steady play (you’re welcome buddy). Once in the shoot-out my meds finally kick-in and I start playing pretty well, energizing the crowd and giving rise to the possibility of another championship . . . instead we get eliminated . . . largely due to Dave’s not so stellar play (just saying?).

Watch the final and congratulate the winners then head back to Dave’s to get cleaned up. This year Sally came down to attend with me (what the hell was I thinking?) and I had to tell her she might find it difficult to believe . . . I still do . . . but there are some people there who actually like me. I get some wiseass reply which I let go and twenty minutes later we’re back at the club, twenty-five minutes later I see Sally with Dave’s wife Alice and a bunch of people and she has this incredulous look on her face, she sees me and mouths OMG!!

I know, I have some just incredible friends here. Guys who I would do anything for and who already do so much for me I can’t begin to thank them. Every year I look forward to coming down and seeing them, it might be the only time all year I do and it’s as if we never left the year before. I try and remember every act of kindness expressed on my behalf, a helping hand given without any thought, asking if I need anything . . . it’s overwhelming. . . so much to be thankful for and believe me . . . I am.

So there you are Danny, not much of a close but know how much you all mean to me . . . all of you.

My (now constant) Companion

The beginning:

No, it’s not a dog . . . well, it is a dog but it’s called Parkinson‘s Disease and we’ve been together 13 years. Diagnosed at 49 I was told I’m actually lucky since my form is considered “slow moving”. When I say lucky it’s a term not associated with say winning the lottery or finding a pearl in your oyster . . . more in line with “hey, I broke my arm, both knees, sustained a severe concussion and massive internal injuries . . . but I survived the crash!” kind of lucky.

First noticed by my secretary when I went to pick up a fax and engaged her in conversation. At the time my arm was in a sling due to having recently undergone shoulder surgery. As we were talking she kept looking at my hand holding the paper until finally asking if I was aware I was shaking? My first thought was the surgeon must have “nipped” a nerve while repairing my torn rotator cuff . . . I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Follow-up with my shoulder surgeon who, upon further review, says it isn’t nerve damage since his operation was “perfect” … I’m not shocked, what kind of doctor is going to admit they screwed up? Even so after a couple more weeks of what is now a very noticeable tremor I go back again. This time I think I hit one of his nerves. After waiting for a hour he comes breezing in with an impressive array of pictures taken while I was undergoing the procedure. . . like that made it crystal clear! All I see is a bunch red meat with a couple of staples and other assorted hardware while he describes in hushed monotone the splendor of his work.

Figuring I’m going nowhere fast and still not convinced, I move on to get yet another opinion . . . and then another. What followed were 4 or 5 months of chasing doctors around trying to find one who would agree with “Doctor” Stark and say it was due to something done while repairing my shoulder. Apparently climbing poles for seven years did not qualify me as an orthopedic surgeon as it turns out his operation was perfect and it wasn’t my shoulder after all . . .

Resigned to this new reality I segue to a local neurologist and learn my problem may stem from a loss of dopamine-secreting neurons in an area of the midbrain called the substantia-nigra. That I somehow missed that diagnosis partially explains why I’m not licensed to perform invasive surgery (turns out Parkinson’s attacks your joints, especially those weakened by . . . say an operation?)

To the credit of this neurologist he suggests I see someone specializing in “movement disorders” . . . a phrase I came to despise . . . and suggests The University of Pennsylvania. I find out later they are also a “Center of Excellence” for Parkinson’s disease.

So, after 5 months of denial I finally come to grips with the fact I’m neither a orthopedic or neuro-surgeon and I need to go where directed. The suggestion that my brian may be somehow compromised is now beginning to take hold (possibly explaining the considerable lack of academic achievement attained during my “formative” years) and I make the appointment I should have made 6 months ago . . . not that it would have made a difference. At this point it still hadn’t dawned on me this could be something serious . . . that only happens to other people . . . a positon which clearly demonstrates my having a neurologic problem.

So the day comes and my wife Sally and I head down for the examination. We arrive and take the elevator to the designated floor and are greeted by the first of many incredibly gifted people. Are they smart? Clearly . . . Professional? Without question . . . Engaging? I have eaten fruit with more personality.

It quickly becomes obvious that to qualify as a professional Neurologist you must also possess zero sense of humor and never . . . ever . . . laugh. This was going to be a problem. My whole life is based on finding the humor in things . . . especially those most challenging to overcome. When I was a little boy my grand-pop (worthy of a book of his own) told me . . . “as long as you can find a way to laugh every day, if only once and at yourself, no day will ever be wasted” . . . he was right. No matter how bad things get if you can find humor, even if gallows, it makes good days great and bad ones better.

After a short wait I meet my new doctor, the one who will hopefully rid me of this annoyance. Stacy Horn is an ultimate professional, embodying the serious nature of her field. She is an excellent clinician and understandably, since part of her job entails telling people they have an incurable disease, is not prone to doing stand-up material the first visit.

After initial pleasantries are exchanged and I describe what I have been going through she has me go outside her office and among other little things, walk down the hall. She then gets behind me and pulls my shoulders to check my balance . . . one of the barometers I always worry about when I go there as it indicates how much further the disease has progressed. After a few other rudimentary tasks Doctor Horn says to come in her office and she will provide us some answers. We sit down and she starts in by saying “Brian, I believe you have early onset Parkinson’s disease”. Naturally, being a Stark, it’s taking me a second or two to process this information but finally ask “OK, what do I do to fix this?” Then, with no preamble of false hope she says, “Parkinson’s is an incurable neurologic condition which eventually will cause complete debilitation and if complications resulting from it are severe enough, death . . . have a nice day”.

OK, I added that.

She follows up with a line I have repeated about a thousand times, adding “I would suggest you do now whatever it is you want to do and not put it off until later as this condition will only worsen”

It was then; at that precise moment in time I realized I had married the right woman. There is an ever-so-slight pause as I attempt to synthesize this bit of joyous news and before I can muster a witty retort Sally looks directly at the doctor and says “You know, this is a perfect disease for Brian, he’s been doing whatever he’s wanted for as long as I have known him”

The most perfect line anyone could have said, ever.

Doctor Horn looks at her aghast as it obviously was not the response she was expecting. Meanwhile I’m laughing my ass off and high-fiving Sally when Stacy, without further commentary on my wife’s incredibly spot-on analysis asks if we have any further questions as she would like to schedule more tests and start a drug treatment program . . . have a nice life.

OK, I added that too.

That was in 2002 and much has happened since then. Stacy became one of our favorite people and actually would smile when seeing us come in. I met a number of excellent doctors, one a golfer looking for me to join his study group who just happened to be a member of a prestigious golf club . . . currently ranked #6 . . . in the world. Marion Country Club is the crown jewel of a number of excellent golf clubs scattered throughout eastern Pennsylvania and a place of reverence to discerning golfers . . . like myself. So, employing sales skills honed at Bell Atlantic’s Project Top Gun I was able to arrange a quid pro quo, I join the study he gets me on his club. Done and done . . . shot a million but it didn’t matter. In return he had me for his study where they placed copper wires across my taped open eyes and ran a current through them, took utensils seen more often in a dentist office to pry my eyelids open and shined high-wattage light on my eyes . . . and I still think I got the best part of the deal.

Over the years I would occasionally attempt to make Stacy laugh but she was tough, excellent, but tough. I finally had enough and prior to starting one of our check-ups I mentioned to her I had a breakthrough. She asked what it was and I explained. Although it might seem impossible, if I focused very hard, I could isolate my tremors to one part of my body rather than the arbitrary and random occurrences happening all over. Hearing this the clinician Stacy took over and she inquired how could that be? Now as evidenced earlier, Sally is in pitch with me at least when it comes to Parkinson’s. But since I didn’t tell her what I had planned and as she knows only too well I have at times exceeded social norms I am getting “the look”. Undeterred, I forge ahead. I tell her I was able to direct them to my penis which is why Sally has been smiling so much the past few visits . . . except for now . . . at this particular minute.

Ever the clinician, she looks at me seriously and asks “really?” . . . to which I reply . . . “no”.

It was the first time I ever heard Stacy laugh out loud and it was a beautiful sound . . . Sally despite her Catholic background and calling me an asshole . . . even mustered a smile . . . that or it was a gas pain.

Conquering the Emerald Isle, One Guinness at a Time

Tuesday, May 6^th – Day 1 (our time):

It starts…get a call about hour and a half before Dave and Leo are supposed to pick me up. Dave’s van, stuffed with his and Leo’s shit, has managed to find an errant meteor which has cracked his windshield. Immediately initiate emergency contingency plan to uncover possible winning scenarios and come up with transferring contents of crippled van into my Jeep. My son Chris will drop me off at the meet point and drive the crippled Ryan ride back to the Stark residence for repairs. Simple? This is Stark/Ryan. Fully anticipate arriving at my local Wawa, the designated LZ, and finding contents won’t fit in rescue Jeep.

Fear unfounded, shit fits and we’re off.

Leo drives (which turns out to be his primary lot this trip) to Newark International, drops us off and we hook up at the gate. A couple hours in and we’re doing fine.

Board plane and find Dave got us a couple of aisle seats, which is good, sitting on my side in the interior seats are two people with weak bladders, which is not. Don’t like flights over a couple of hours and although this one’s only about six due to a favorable jet stream, it’s going to be a test.

Lift off at 7 p.m. and Dave, who says he can’t sleep in the air, goes lights out before we go wheels up. Mister “I can’t sleep on a plane” sleeps so well the people in his row stop nudging him and just climb over his comatose body.

I’m not as lucky. Every time I come close to nodding out, one or the other of my seatmates decides it’s a good time to evacuate their kidneys. Arrive Dublin 2 p.m. their time exhausted and cranky. Breeze though baggage claim and can’t believe I’m here…Ireland!

Day 2 (Still day 1 their time):

Although my body-clock is a mess and my drug schedule in tatters, I’m here and feeling great! Leo gets the rental, we load up and it’s off to Baltray and County Louth Golf Club where we’ll get a nap, hook up with Kevin and play 18…

During the ride over, Leo entertains us with tales of his youth growing up in Ireland and stories about the courses we’re going to play. By the time we get there, Dave and I are praying he gets laryngitis feel like we know all there is to know to have a great trip.

Pull up to the course and I’m in love, what? Right! Place is ancient, but beautiful in an old but proud way. Not over-imposing, in fact it’s like an old farmhouse with a few rooms to rent. I’d describe it as being in the middle of nowhere, but it’s Ireland and it’s perfect what, huh?

Go check out pro-shop and it seems as though I’m back in time. Find the cock manger (men’s locker room) and swear I see old Tom Morrison taking a leak but it turns out to be Kevin. Man hugs and well wishes ensue then back to the pro shop where I pick out a shirt for my wife and a sweater vest for me. Apparently I should have brought my glasses in. I can’t see the prices on the clothing much less the receipt I sign but figure hey, he’s Irish I won’t get boned.

I do, however, begin to feel an uncomfortable pre-insertion when the nice Irish gentleman behind the counter requests a co-signee and a copy of my 401(k) holdings prior to completing the transaction. My fear of getting piped is well founded for as he’s folding up my purchases he offers up a “free” divot tool and brim clip ball marker…because he “likes me”.

Bang on huh? What?

At tee time I’m still without sleep but adrenalin is a big “go.” Get a couple of balls from my new buddy in the pro-shop whose mortgage payment I just made and head out to the range to shake off the cobwebs. On the way I notice a couple of old gentlemen stopping to put their rain goods on…it’s currently sunny…ask Leo and he tells me these guys read the weather and that “something’s coming.” That something is a light 40 mph breeze and sideways rain that sandblasts the first three layers of skin off your face…just like I imagined it would be.

Add an extra layer and its game on. Step onto the first tee and just look out and stare…either because I’m late with my meds or because it’s Ireland and I’m about to play golf here, on a course over 100 years old, where probably hundreds of thousands of rounds have been played before me. I set up as best I can while looking for the F-18 whose jet wash is blowing me out of the box and swing…the “golf” part of the trip is officially underway.

The layout is spectacular, but the rain is wet and I am tired. Say hello to Doctor Obvious. Play well through the front nine, all things considered, get to 15 and I’m done…just can’t hang any longer. Dave, who’s my partner in the match, is heartbroken. I can tell when he says what I think is, “You OK buddy? I hope you feel better” but learn later from Leo it actually, “Thank God he’s gone”…no worries he plays great and we end up all square…not a bad start.

Rally for dinner…Guinness, soup, more Guinness, food, Guinness…

Day two is over and already it’s going too quick.

Day 3:

Sleep little but escape the dreaded hangover (bad news that) after drinking five stouts and a couple of Bailey’s. Grab breakfast, which includes some great sausages. As I’m eating them, Leo and Kevin exchange a disturbing look of amusement. Never even consider asking…go for seconds then head off to throw up.

Jam the gear in our rental van and Dave says he’s riding shotgun with Leo…good by me since I’m looking forward to getting to know Kevin better. As they pull out, Kev notices Leo has gotten into the wrong lane, apparently thinking he is back on the beltway and the trip almost ends calamitously as they barely miss an intimate encounter with some local. Undeterred and now in the proper lane, we’re off.

Although the drive is actually a couple of hours I’m sure Kevin doesn’t notice. This due to my regaling him with hilarious anecdotal stories pulled from my childhood, my time as a NJ Bell installer then, once those topics are exhausted, seguing flawlessly to describing my grandson Liam’s adventures in T-Ball. Jolly good fun eh, what? Right!

Funny, I didn’t realize Kevin had a twitch…

We make it to the Ballyliffin Hotel where we dump off the luggage and layer up for our second round. Once properly ensconced in the de rigueur rain goods on top of two sweaters, insulated rain jacket, wet gloves…and shorts…I dig out the rain pants to cover my milky white German legs and we pile in for the five minute ride to the course…

It’s raining again (shocking) with gentle winds blowing a pleasant 50 mph and I’m beginning to think I need my parka.

It is about then I began to notice a slight similarity with Kevin and Leo’s speech…after every sentence you get “right, heh, no?” or something vaguely close to that. It’s lovely really; sounds like you have a bucket of marbles in your mouth but lovely nonetheless.

Play the newer Glashedy Links and it’s me and Kev against the big gunners…not a problem. Course is fantastic…except Dave says he doesn’t like the fairways, we kind of figured that because he avoids them the entire match. Kev and I play well and Leo I find is really, really good. Shocking only because he looks bored 90% of the time and the other 10% he’s got a Guinness in his hand…maybe it’s the other way around? That and he fancies wearing shorts only Pete Biava could love, the color of which are difficult to describe, due in large part to the fact it is not indigenous to this planet. Doesn’t matter though eh, what?

Kev and I, aided by Dave’s aversion to good play, hang on for another tie and (again) nobody gets hurt.

Limp into clubhouse for, shockingly, more Guinness then back to hotel where I grab a shower. Interesting set up for that, full tub and half an enclosure…I go first and when Dave follows asks why there is three inches of water on the floor. I calmly explain it’s a hand-held shower fixture and I have Parkinson’s. He nods and we’re out of the room in five…

Eat at hotel and drink even more Guinness…that shite is good, no? Huh? Right!

Day three is in the books and we’re cruising

Day 4:

Get up early and find Dave’s already awake. Engage in early AM ball busting then head downstairs where Dave commandeers some coffee from a truly emblematic Irish gentleman. Can’t understand a word he says but could listen to him all day. We finish our first cup and decide to walk outside where we discover something odd. No rain and there’s a big yellow ball in the sky. We decide it must be a UFO and call the authorities.

Go back in, meet the lads for a breakfast of more delicious sausages, the origin of which I don’t want to know, and we’re off for round three. Arrive at the club five minutes later and it’s raining. The world is right again.

Today it’s me and Leo and we’re playing the “Old Course.” It’s spectacular…no other words necessary. Beautiful fairways (one could only speculate by Dave’s refusal to play within them he doesn’t like these either), incredible vistas and tough playing conditions…tough only if you find tornadic winds and wrath of God downpours a wee challenging.

Leo’s long, I’m short but we ham and egg them for a two-way win and happiness overflows. I actually par 16, 17 and 18; the last of which is especially great, since I walk it with Dave as the other guys take pictures…it’s a special feeling walking with my buddy of almost 30 years.

Finish up, have a few more (what else?) Guinness pints and a quick lunch then it’s off for a three-hour tour of Ireland as we make our way to Kev’s house. I’m riding shotgun with Leo this time since Kevin is quick to grab Dave saying something about his fragile mental health…

Take a scenic tour along the coast, then inland among the bucolic countryside and it’s easy to see why they call this the Emerald Isle…lush and green, just beautiful. During the ride I try my best to entertain Leo, recanting stories of my life as a child prodigy, drummer in a near do well rock band and, since I was running out of material, my recent colonoscopy. I’m so glad we have this chance to be together; I think we really connect.

Since we are getting close and need to pick up a couple of bottles of wine, we pull into a local shopping center. I go in search of good plumbing leaving Leo to make the selection. By the time I return we have two excellent varietals…and about 50lbs of chocolate for Leo’s family. These Irish and their sweet tooth’s, what? Huh, right!

Cruise into Kevin’s and find him and Dave already a couple of pints in. Meet his lovely daughter wife Noeleen and find she’s even sweeter then we imagined. Pretty, funny and a Yoga instructor…the proverbial “jack pot”.

Walk into the media room, a very cool place with lots of windows looking out onto a beautiful scene of fields and a golf course, and find a montage of the pictures Kevin took throughout our trip running on his PC. Just awesome…unfortunately, his camera adds about 20lbs to your frame. Convene quick sidebar conversation requesting he initiate immediate remediation effort before the pictures go state-side. After much begging he relents and edit’s in what appears to be Governor Chris Christie’s body and sticks my head on it…Irish humor isn’t funny. Sulk into kitchen to grab a glass of wine and see everyone’s helping with dinner and I realize just how good I have it. Figure I’ll lose 30lbs by Member-Guest and forget about the stupid pictures.

Go outside and chat it up with Kevin as he’s grilling the steaks and think, man, it just can’t get any better. Then, of course, it does. After dinner Leo gives me a cigar, we sit out on the back porch with Dave, Kev and Noeleen, talking and laughing and I begin to think that this just might be the highlight of the trip…well, that and par’ing in from the 16^th to win our match didn’t suck either. But we still have one more day to play so we hit the rack around midnight and it depresses me to think how soon all this will be over.

Day 5:

Drive is a short one so Kevin relents and lets me ride with him as long as I don’t tell him any more stories…he must be sore from laughing? Roll into Portsalon Golf Club and we’re entering our last full day in Ireland…

This is Kevin’s old home course and we’re partnered up against Dave and Leo. Figure it’s going to be tough match but we quickly go a couple up. Kevin and I are riding together and he’s playing great, I’m playing pretty well and Dave and Leo are walking through the grouse talking about IBM’s corporate tax structure or some other equally as interesting topic and wondering why they’re not in it. Beat them pretty handily but they solve IBM’s off-shoring tax problems so all in it works out well.

Even though it only rains for a couple of holes at the end of the round, it makes up for a lack of duration with a complete soaking. Slosh into clubhouse grill for a couple of pints and a sandwich, head out to parking lot dump stuff in van, hug Kevin goodbye and we’re off on a three hour drive to Dublin and the Westin Hotel. I have to note that Kevin was wearing a Portsalon sweater the other day and mentioned he wanted to give it to me as a remembrance, which he did. I can’t begin to describe how class an act that was by such a great guy.

Drive what seems a long time, I guess because it’s all starting to sink in, we’re done with the golf part of the trip and are leaving tomorrow.

Get to downtown Dublin and discover the Westin is extremely nice but find the reservations are completely f’ed up, which is not. As is Dave’s unselfish way (the perfect Ying to my self-absorbed Yang) he had applied a portion of the approximately 50 million points he has accrued with them so we wouldn’t have to pay. Since I am not right next to him I can’t hear the conversation but do see the infamous and much feared Ryan Death Stare signaling things are not going well for the poor girl behind the desk. In fairness to Dave, when one of your patrons is awarded the highly sought after but rarely attained, Cobalt Black- Senior Executive-Crown-Prince status (earned by his spending three or four nights a week in your hotel) one might expect certain accommodations…say like honoring a reservation made six months in advance. Apparently Dave had requested two suites, one for Leo and one for us. Leo’s was a king bed and ours two queens.

When the girl at check-in informs “Mr. Ryan” she doesn’t have any more two-bedroom suites, I flash back to a trip we had taken once down to my place in Naples, Florida. Dave and I went to pick up a pizza which he had asked not to be sliced. We go in and Dave (who apparently was severely over served at my residence by either Greg or Chris) asks to see the pizza. When the nice little girl opens the box it unfortunately is. To say he was not happy would be a disservice to the word and we escaped only after the owner provided two of his personal pizza stones for us to take home. Suitably accommodated, Dave ( see “Ying” above) proceeds to cash-whip the young lass her first two semesters at a college of her choice…and this is looking eerily familiar.

Although employing his usually effective repertoire of threats, reason and begging (not in any particular order) we get nowhere and end up taking the suite offered. It’s enormous; king size bed and bathroom on the first floor and a spiraling staircase to what appears to be a den where they rolled in a bed. Dave in another gesture of friendship tells me to take the first floor with the big bed and bathroom. Guess he figures if I have the top floor and try to make it down to use the head in the middle of the night he will have to explain to Sally how I was impaled on the lovely stairwell.

It’s already 8:30 and we need to leave the hotel by 6 a.m., so we head down to bar for some much needed Guinness since we haven’t had one in, oh three hours what? Right!

Mingle with classy crowd of très chic men and women and feel perfectly at home with Leo and his alien shorts. Have a couple of pints and head over to a great restaurant Leo picks out, have an excellent meal then cruise over to a bar jammed with a couple of hundred people. Not good for me…lousy balance, half in the bag, probably drooling and incontinent…well, then again, maybe I could have fit in. Slam down last Guinness of the trip and head to the rack for much needed sleep.

I love how the Irish conserve, but can’t get used to having to put your room key in a slot by the door for any electric outlets or lights to work. Get in bed and wake up at about 2 a.m. needing to piss like a racehorse. It’s pitch black, darker even, and I can’t see shit. Forget about finding the damn room card, you can’t find your face it’s so dark, even if I do, I’ll then have to find a slot in the wall the size of a credit card, add-in shaking and…did I mention the racehorse?

It is a total blackout.

I do my best imitation of Ray Charles coupled with a Mime and find what I think is the bathroom door. I have seconds before it doesn’t matter so I grab the handles and rip it open, stumble around, discharge is now imminent, find something porcelain and proceed to pee in what turns out to be a very nice sink…not that I could see it. I only surmise that because I can’t find a flush handle either. Bang my way back to bed and wake up again at 5 a.m. and it’s still black as pitch. Figure I’ll use the bathroom first and get ready early so Dave can have a go when he gets up at 5:30. Forgetting the whole electric grid thing, I find my card, put it in the slot and Dave’s upstairs lights up like Grand Central Station. I hear, “Brian, you turned all my lights on”…hey I’m rooming with Karnac! What? Huh! Right!

I pull the card out and it takes another 30 seconds to shut everything down so I hear, “Brian…all my lights are on.” This time I detect a crankier Dave. I start to walk over to where I think the stairwell is and the lights go out again…total, complete blackness. Using my nicest morning voice, I call softly up to Dave and start to tell him the reason all his lights went on is because when the card got pulled prior to our leaving the room, they were all on then. It isn’t a conversation Dave wants to engage in and I understand why…he never was very technical.

In the end it all works out. I turn on the lights, find the bathroom, shave out of the toilet and am good to go. Dave gets done and we head to the lobby to hook up with Leo and his magic shorts. The rest doesn’t matter…

All in, it was a trip of a lifetime, shared by four friends who grew even closer.

Thank you Kevin for making us welcome in your country and your home, Leo for helping with the itinerary, driving and everything else you did and most of all, thank you Dave for being the best friend anyone could ever have.

2013 Norbeck CC Member-Guest Recap

“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.

Want to thank Ronnie “D” (front left?) for sharing the picture of his foursome after finishing fourth in the Sir Elton John Flight. Hey, they’re all men of Norbeck…not that there’s 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…

My Friend Z

After our last peer review session, as Susan and I were discussing the future direction of the corporation, I happened to casually mention your name.

It was heartbreaking.

She told me of your “condition”…no, not that one, although she did indicate you were experiencing some blood flow issues, but others as troubling…unable to make a decision or remember important details (what socks to iron, did I brush my teeth this month, where did I put the new doilies for the credenza?) and incapable of even marginally satisfying your marital responsibilities even though the bar was already pathetically low. When pressed for more details she said in a quivering voice, “I just want back the man I married, effeminate, yes, but bold in his wardrobe and tender liked his grilled steaks.” It was painfully clear, I needed to intervene.

Unfortunately, I was too late.

Despite convening an emergency mind-share session and employing tactics refined post-Top Gun, the answer to your problem remained elusive. It was heartbreaking to think your once marginally acceptable mind, the very growth engine that drove your career to heights once thought impossible…a low level manager with limited responsibilities garnering accolades such as “tries hard” and “doesn’t make things worse” was now merely a shell of its former self.

Speaking with Susan and hearing all she has endured over the years…cardboard corner bumpers, customized hair blowers capable of attaining wind speeds in excess of 150 mph, the precise velocity required to assure the “carefree” windblown look you so desperately long for, and other “idiosyncrasies” too numerous to name only highlighted my concerns. .

I am deeply saddened I did not recognize the signs for in hindsight they were always there. However, it wasn’t until that tortured conversation with your wife that I was able to see with unfiltered clarity the depths of your depravation.

Take heart my friend, for you have finally attained your lofty benchmark…you have become Felix Unger; with pressed socks…an amoeba…floating on the current of life, adrift in an endless sea, waiting to be devoured.

I weep as I write this…

2012 Norbeck CC Member-Guest Recap

May 9^th:

Well it’s a month till the Norbeck Member-Guest and I’m getting that familiar feeling again…a mix of fear, loathing and the abject joy of seeing Alice and the kids. Dave sent directions to what will be my wing of the Ryan manse. They start at the servant’s entrance and go for three pages…Magellan had an easier route. Thankfully, I have once again secured Dave’s daughter Sophia as my Sherpa to help navigate.

June 2^nd:

Less than a week to go and I receive my check-in package. Upon reading, I see it’s filled with thoughtful notes from my host. I call Dave to ask WTF and am directed to an 8oo number whereby “management” informs me there are new rules tailored specifically to each guest’s particular “idiosyncrasies.” Following is a short sampling of mine:

• Wearing of bib required at all times as drool is difficult to get out of new carpeting (this due to recent shaving of goatee which served as a natural wetlands).

• “Suggested” use of specially designed Parkinson’s urinal – custom made and designed with large flange deployed at operational height to capture uncontrollable spraying due to hand tremors.

• Use of servant’s entrance will be enforced thus minimizing potential embarrassment to Mr. Ryan’s family due to guest’s stumbling gait, drooling and propensity to pass gas (had a problem with this one…describes the entire Member-Guest field and therefore not an idiosyncrasy).

Those were followed by more general information:

• Calls made from guest rooms to the “Master’s Wing” require use of a separate area code and, like the once gratuitous use of the 60 or so porn channels, are now billable to any major credit card…validated at check-in.

• Continental breakfast will be offered for a small surcharge…$5.99 for coffee and a dry bagel; $7.99 if you would like cream, sugar or butter, $1.50 per napkin.

And lastly, a lengthy Terms and Conditions chapter informing me that any retelling or disbursing of written notes detailing my time at either the Ryan Estate or the Norbeck Member-Guest will expose me to prosecution by the widely respected boutique law firm “Ambulance/Chasen/Boscolo.”

Aptly named…

Wednesday June 6^th:

On way down I give NCC crowd favorite Gregg Z a call to see how he’s doing. Since ride takes three and a half hours we only cover four body parts, so we schedule a follow-up for my return trip north. Good God, the guy’s retired to a palace in Charleston, on the waterway, has a 100’ dock leading out to a boat lift and belongs to a great golf course…yes, he has legitimate issues; fastidious, irons his underwear, furniture bumpers; not that there’s anything wrong with that; but we killed an hour comparing the moisture absorbing qualities of Depends versus the one’s recommended by NASA. Hey, if they’re good enough for John Glen who am I to argue?

It was much more entertaining when we used to bitch about not getting laid. Unfortunately at this age neither of us cares (much) and even if I did, I usually can’t remember if it’s a month starting with a vowel and therefore green-lighted for the second Tuesday, after 9 but before 10, strictly appointment only. I know it all sounds so romantic but there is an issue. My wife finds it entertaining to put Aleve in my Viagra bottle (they look alike) in the off chance I do remember and secure time on the schedule. This works well for her since after taking one preparatory to engaging, my aches and pains subside and all of a sudden I’d rather go play 18. I realize we’re talking all of about 3 ½ minutes (I included travel time to and from the bedroom and a post-event shower) here, but at my advancing age every minute counts.

Four hours later blow into what, according to directions provided in check-in package, should be Dave’s development and immediately start bitching about my GPS. No way Davy lives here. I’m in the wrong neighborhood. House I’m looking at is a modest 20K sq. ft., sits on a lot the size of a small state, has a miniature nuclear reactor supplying enough power to keep Daddy’s chiller a brisk 38 degrees and a guard at the end of the drive. Nice guy, early 30’s about 6’ 3” and packing heat…has a Para-military uniform replete with sat telemetry and a cool looking headset. I ask if he knows Dave and he asks for a description…loud; crude; drives an ’87 Honda and never ties his shoes.

Bingo. Apparently “Mr. Ryan,” aka “Jethro,” has moved on up. Guy then informs me he needs to check my bank account prior to allowing further access in the event I break something while enjoying my stay. In an attempt to lighten things up I ask how much it would cost if I break Dave’s balls, no sooner get that out then I find myself cuffed to the Jeep waiting for “Mr. Ryan” to come vouch for me. After waiting 45 minutes for Dave to navigate winding driveway, I am only mildly surprised when the guy salutes and after signing the appropriate documents am released into “Mr. Ryan’s” custody.

2012 Member-Guest is officially underway . . .

June 6^th – 5 p.m.:

Apparently when Daddy invited our buddy Chris Halloran down, ostensibly to have dinner with us…he casually mentioned he should bring tools and a ladder as there might be a little work to do pre-supper. Chris no sooner clears the local checkpoint, ascends the royal driveway and we engage in obligatory man-hugs then he is hustled away upstairs to install a 100lb mirror in the tastefully laid out Master Bedroom. With 27 rooms, a kitchen with two ovens, two microwaves and a refrigerator a mortician would envy, the Master is pretty much to scale. Not known for my length off the tee, I could still hit driver 5-iron and not reach the other end, which also explains the need for the mini-reactor. An hour 20, three mammoth holes and an abandoned box of toggle bolts later, we give up and head to Norbeck for more beers and dinner.

June 6^th – 6:30 p.m. – Beers at Club:

Get to club just in time to see some of the gang…Danny Wolf, who I really like since we apparently share a similar diet; Gaeton Brunetto, patriarch of the Brotherhood of the Cup; Chris Burns, Boys Night Out money man and South Philly aficionado; good buddy Pete Biava (stunning in signature white belt over “Bubba Watson” designer pink silk running shorts and a “fun” man-thong…not that there’s anything wrong with that); initial member guest winners Craig and Grant Grayson who just couldn’t be nicer guys; my favorite Irish mafia members Leo Ring and guest Kevin Kiely who flies in from the homeland every year with a brogue I could listen to for days. Jim Dooley, my winter buddy who lets me come down, wear his shorts, stay in the formerly named Ryan-Z room (now the BS Suite) and play his beautiful golf courses. I also think I might have spotted Tim Burke, not sure he saw me though as he was chatting it up with some little 4’ guy wearing green and heading into the men’s room as if on a mission…don’t know what was up with that.

Night ends with lots of laughs and the promise of a strong outing for team Ryan-Stark…the first of many misconceptions.

Thursday, June 7^th:

Thursday morning wake up and immediately get lost trying to find the kitchen, call Dave who directs me to map provided with check-in package. Forty minutes later we hustle out to have breakfast with Dave’s Mom who’s as sweet as he is loud. Leave diner and head to some farmers’ market located in a town 20 miles away costing me $30 in gas so we can pick up wings for the cart guys. I was good with the whole donut holes thing since Dunkin was on the way, but the wing episode I could live without…especially after Daddy Hits it Far decides to nosh a couple in the parking lot and throws the remnants in the back seat of my jeep…a discovery not made until riding home three days later. Here I thought the smell of death emanating from the back was due to Dave’s shoes being left in the Jeep all three days…apologies to my host.

Team Ryan and the wings from hell arrive at club with a few minutes to spare and immediately engage in de rigueur ball busting with usual suspects. Dave says we’re paired with my two favorite attorneys, Benji and Mr. 2-hit, Jeff Keitelman, in the practice round. Unfortunately for Jeff, he will end up in traction by the end of the tourney due to something he now claims Benji did, should have done or did wrong, forcing Benji to solicit donations for his legal defense fund and looking to have Gaeton increase his tort liability coverage.

Practice Round – Play well enough but have premonition that this is not going to be our year. Sadly, I have no idea just how “not” it was going to be. Of course Daddy Hits it Far (DHIF) was crushing the ball so this was pretty much the conversation at every tee box…

Dave – “Daddy just KILLED it!” Me – “Didn’t see it, you in play?” Dave – “I CRUSHED it!”

Me – “You got it?” Dave – “That – was – just – KILLED!” Me – “You’re OB, right?” Dave – “KILLED!”

Me – “Great shot” Dave – “Thanks!”

Finish round out of money which is NBD, nobody ever wins the practice round and the overall (see Rick Toren – Dave Tarbell) but have a feeling things will get better once we tee it up for real…did I mention I have a neurologic disease?

Après’ round, head to bar for refueling then over to the first tee being used as the 2012 version of a Roman Coliseum where members and their guests are systematically thrown to the lions. In this case the lions have names like Ryan, Smith, Tarbell, Boscolo, et el. Having been Dave’s partner for almost 10 years I normally can tune out the screaming, taunting and debasing comments. I think I’m like Pavlov’s dog when it comes to this event. Absent pre-shot comments like, “Will you do something here?” and post-shot ones like, “For a golfer of your caliber that was almost good” and “Hey that’s good, for you,” I would probably play worse. In fact, I’m certain of it. One year I actually asked a maintenance guy to scream during my backswing when Dave left me to attend his son’s 8^th grade graduation. Although he tried, it was asking the impossible. NOBODY has the cranial square-footage capable of putting out anything close to his volume.

After watching the carnage for a couple of minutes, 2-hit and I retire to the banquet room and are first to grab a steak and cocktail. As we settle in for what is a tremendous meal and some hope for solitude, it becomes very evident, very quickly, the walls are nowhere near thick enough to block out DHIF. In fact, I don’t doubt that people sitting out two or three towns over are treated to comments like, “Who’s this? The human tongue depressor?” (Rick Leftwich), “Nice shorts, your wife know you borrowed them?” (Mark Capozzella) and my all-time favorite, “Nice shot asshole” (everybody else).

On a slightly different note, here’s why Dave and I think so highly of our buddy Gaeton. The man is a 33 handicap with no chance to win the driving contest. yet he goes up against the withering verbal assault and takes his swings. You just have to admire that.

I stopped going up years ago after one particularly grueling practice round where I was subjected to “TMD” (Too Much Dave). Five hours of him screaming, “Daddy’s rolling the rock” and “Daddy hit it FAR” had pretty much put me over the edge. We had just finished playing in what had to be the hottest day of the summer, I had my shoes off, my back was killing me from two herniated discs and Dave riding me the entire 18 holes when I got the call to get up and hit. Now this is after Daddy just striped one about 280. My first mistake was to politely demure after which I was subjected to a hideous shit-storm from guys I thought liked me, my second and fatal mistake was to actually go hit. Back then I was healthier but only hitting driver 180 on a good day and as recorded, this was not a good day. I think when I actually recalled the event years later during one of the many therapy sessions, I recorded a stellar drive of about 155yds after which my penis fell off and I had to retreat to the locker room to reattach it. I feel ill just rethinking the event.

Somewhere during the night, Dave gets a call from his lovely wife Alice asking if he can get home a little early for his daughter’s birthday party. He tells me we’ll leave in about 10 minutes then goes over, grabs another beer and takes his place in the front of the gallery and the show begins. I will admit he is in rare form; unfortunately he is in form for the next 45 minutes. Since it’s so loud (Dave – Loud – Really?) he can’t hear his phone and by the time I go up to see if he’s ready, it’s already way past ugly.

Now Dave is a big, strong guy and his wife is not. She’s petite, pretty and tonight she is really, really, pissed. In this case, size definitely doesn’t matter. Although we come in like a Seal Team, rubber soles and black face, we only make it to the kitchen before we see Alice. Dave freezes and I look for a familiar door to retreat down to my room. Unfortunately the house is so damn big my first attempt puts me in the pantry and the second the washroom. Before I can try a third, I hear Dave whisper, “Don’t leave me.” So I stay and watch this big strong guy turn into Gumby as he gets his lunch eaten 20 ways from Sunday. To his credit he puts up a defense Benji would be proud of, citing safety concerns and rolling right into his Miranda Rights. All in, I give him a solid B- since he rallies back, we have the party and Sophia has a great time regardless. Kids are great, and Dave has three that are all that.

Friday June 8^th, Day 1:

OK, so he slept on the couch, he still gets a C.

Shower, shave and out the door with hope springing eternal. Hard to believe, in about eight hours all that will have evaporated. Get to club with donuts for the boys and within two minutes it’s like I never left. Everyone’s there, well almost. Billy Nolan is absent and that’s too bad. He adds a certain je ne sais quoi to this event and he will be missed. But I see all the others and regardless of how we do, this is going to be a great couple of days.

Work way into bar for the first Dan Smith of the day, grab some eggs, bacon and sausage, then out to range, into men’s room, out to cart and Day 1 is underway. In retrospect, that may have been the most rewarding part of the day right there.

Immediately drop the first match…yes, Dave, everyone knows (because you made a point to tell them) you left me up 2 to attend Marg’s graduation and when you got back I had managed to lose 1 (2??) down. I will only say that Mike Oler and his partner Don Hill played great and I played OK. Did chip in for a birdie and hit the ball pretty well but at the time actually thought Dave’s absence hurt. Two matches later I didn’t realize how good playing solo was.

We I sucked…

Get to second match and it’s my favorite dentists, Joe Boesch and John Moynihan. I really enjoy smoking Joe’s Cuban cigars our matches together. Meet John before we start, swap cigars and casually ask where Joe is. I mention I have cigars for both of them and he tells me Joe can’t smoke, he’s got some weird lung thing…almost start crying. I then make another tactical error when I see Joe and ask what’s up with his lungs. Never ask a healthcare professional about their health…Scleroderma; Dyspnea and Erectile Dysfunction…man, all that going on and we still lose 2 down? How good are we playing? Actually don’t play horrible but John plays really well which Dave and I both think is great…been greater if he did it against someone else which he apparently does as they make it pretty deep into the playoffs.

We sucked…

Dave attempts to rationalize his our my poor play by saying it’s OK, it’s our time to “give back”…like we have a choice? I can’t make a putt, he can’t find the green and just to emphasize my point he shanks two from inside 100. Now if we were “giving back” he should be OK with that…I suppose screaming “I suck” while trying to step on his ball to find it in the high junk is “OK.”

Last match of day and we’re playing Dennis Shanahan and Jim Mangam, good guys, better golfers and we lose again. I’m just not finding the “Zen” in all this “giving back”…apparently neither is Dave. He begins to babble incoherently,” It’s OK, we won twice, we’re good golfers” then he snaps out of it and reverts to the Dave I know and love telling me I have to “step it up if we’re going to make a move.
I politely inform him the only move I’m making is out of his house (if I can figure out what door to use) and back to New Jersey.

Man, do we suck…

Finish down three matches and resort to drinking heavily while Dave hastily composes damage control spin. With Dave’s focus occupied, I attempt to retreat back to my jeep figuring I can make it home before midnight. Unfortunately he catches me before I can employ any defensive maneuvering and drags me over to a table where a group of over-served guys are blissfully imbibing. All day we have been riding with a stupid bag in the back of the cart with what I think is a gift for Rick Toren. Since Rick recently got a hole-in-one, I naturally assumed Dave was going to do an impromptu presentation. Which he does, only he starts out with ”as you guys all know, Brian here fancies himself a writer”…immediately my sphincter tightens because I know nothing good is going to come from this.

Over a year ago my son asks if I would like to do a road trip out to California since he has a job interview there. Having just spent most of our retirement funds getting him through Northeastern University I figure what the hell, I love taking trips with my boys and no excuse is really needed. I call Dave, tell him our plans and he once again hooks me up with his buddy Dan who has an unbelievable four-story home in downtown San Francisco, complete with an elevator which takes you to the rooftop wet bar and hot tub. Almost as nice as Dave’s new shack. Dan (who I used to think was a good guy) graciously takes us in for almost a week and we have a ball. I mention this only because while there, Dan’s godfather Dick Kluger and his wife stop in and he invites Alex and I up to join them for cocktails. So over drinks I casually ask Dick what he does, he replies he’s a writer to which I reply I also “like to write” (not “so am I” which seems to be the version Dan remembers and which Dave shockingly prefers). While discussing “our craft,” I happen to mention these moronic write-ups and maybe…just maybe…I mention I’ll send some of my witty compositions to him for his “entertainment,” not “review.”

Back to Dave. As he nears the end of his massive build-up, which loses me and I was supposedly there, he pulls a book out of the bag we’ve been lugging around all day. A book written by Dick Kluger, Winner of the Pulitzer Prize, Dick Kluger. A book, which on the inside cover is written: “Brian, from one award winning author to another. Best, Dick.”

OK, the only thing I can say is, well played. How these guys did this over the course of a year (the time it probably took to convince Dick to sign the damned thing) is beyond my comprehension. However, in my defense and having glanced through the book, I strongly suspect no one, not anyone I’ve meet in the 10 or so years I have been a guest here, would ever read it. The words are too big, there are over 750 pages and it has a bibliography for God’s sake! Seriously, my genre of writing is perfectly tailored to my audience…men who like to drink, golf, drink, smoke cigars, drink some more and make crude remarks to the nice cart girls. My kind of people…let’s see Dick get a Pulitzer writing something they would appreciate!

Just for the record, I would never assume that anybody not part of this menagerie would understand this drivel much less finds it humorous and I am currently compiling my own body of work, which I will be sending back to Dick with a note of my own…

Finish up night looking for Benji “Well I got two hands, might as well take two” Boscolo and somebody says he’s out in the parking lot…strange, they didn’t tell me there was a bar out there? Come to find out two things: One, Benji is very conscientious. Two, DO NOT let your wife, girlfriend or significant other become friends with his lovely wife Shari. Seems as if one of her tennis playing buddies happens to stumble upon our devout hero laying blissfully supine in the front seat of his vehicle, door open in the universal sign of friendship, drool that would make me envious sliding down his slackened jaw and thinks it a “good idea” to snap a picture with her cell phone and send it to her (Shari).

This action violates every “code” known to man. It is very clear to those of us who know Benji his intentions were obvious. His singular focus was on maintaining marital bliss. After all, it is Friday night, date night, they are a young and vibrant couple and he wants to be fresh and rested for Shari if called upon for marital duty. I have subsequently learned this was also nothing “unusual” for a Friday night, in-season. Benji often likes to challenge his family by playing a game loosely based on the popular series “Where’s Waldo.” In this version, he goes to the club around 10 a.m., plays 27 holes of Wolf, consumes approximately 36 beers, retreats to the members’ bar, gets egregiously over served, heroically stumbles out to the parking lot so not to disappoint his children and falls asleep in a car, any car, so the next day his family can try and find Daddy.

Selfless is the word that immediately comes to mind…Bravo Benj, Bravo!!

Saturday June 9^th, Day 2:

Day dawns and it’s a beauty. I order coffee from room service and enjoy the news while having my shorts pressed by the on-call concierge service. I am getting used to life at Chateau Ryan. Pick up more doughnuts for the now obese cart guys and head to our Waterloo.

First match is with the Riley brothers, Terry and Jim, good Irish Catholics. Enjoy camaraderie, beers and once again go down in flames. Zen Master Dave says we played good enough to win after which I ask him why we didn’t and am graced with a glassy-eyed stare and an “ooooolm.” We have officially exited from both the tournament and reality.

We suck huge…

Last match before we can don our Past Champion jackets and talk about how we’ll get it back next year…or the year after that…or Dave gets a new partner…or maybe me…

Be nice if we figured out how to win a point much less a match…

Finally hook up with Doug Arkin, who came in 2^nd last year, and his brother Steve for our (thank God) last match. Good guys, both with game.

Yeah, we lose…again. Mega sucked.

Retreat to clubhouse for lunch then watch our buddies John Seek and his long-time partner Butch Katski win for their 3^rd time. These guys beat Dave and I one year with Butch making a great shot on 17 to win…good job boys!

Well, another great NCC Member Guest…these things go by way too quickly. Hopefully next year Dave and I will give it another shot.

Now I must go, I have a date with a Pulitzer…

See last year’s recap here or find out how these recaps started here.

2011 Norbeck CC Member-Guest Recap

Well it’s the start of another Norbeck Member-Guest trip and already I’m concerned. Last Wednesday, as he was passing through New Jersey on his way home from New York, I met Dave for beers at my club. Haven’t downed the first drink whereupon he informs me MY room, a combination basement/media room/workout room/bedroom, co-located with the always fully stocked beer chiller; the place where I have co-existed with ant colonies rallying in the bathroom sink and endured shower defoliation, will not be available during my member-guest stay. Instead I am being relo’d to the “Attic Suite” directly above his bedroom.

I remember staying above Dave’s room in the past and never sleeping well. All night I endured “Dave you’re amazing,” “Oh my God, Dave you’re incredible,” and “Daddy, you’re HUGE!”

Impressive, save for the fact Alice was away and Dave was alone at the time.

Thursday, Day One:

Due to an emergency involving my mother-in-law (broke her arm), I get about three hours of sleep Wednesday night. Since Sally, who got zero, elects to stay with her, I call over Thursday morning to ask if she needs me. Assume from hysterical laughter followed by dead silence I’m free to go. Feel the urge to ask if everything is OK and instead out of habit, offer up, “Well, have a good day,” which elicits a warm reply I interpret as “have fun” despite sounding like “asshole.” Close enough. I’m good to go.

Its 8 a.m. and I’m off…

It’s amazing…three hours later I cruise into Norbeck and it feels like I’m home. I’ve had so many good experiences here, met so many good people, my only fear and it’s for dead certain, is it will be over way too soon. Park and head off to see who’s around. Enter men’s locker and the first guy I run into looks familiar but can’t place him. Say hello and after some banal chatting mention he looks familiar. He says I ought to remember him since Dave and I beat him and his son in last year’s final. Try to explain how that whole episode was a blur to me, finally give up and resort to the most over-used phrase uttered at Norbeck, “Want a drink?” That settled, we head to bar and officially begin the 2011 Member-Guest.

By 11:30 guys start filtering in…my ambulance chasing attorney, who’s part-time gig is filling in for Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass when they play anywhere near Bethesda, Benji Boscolo and his guest Mr. 3. I swore someone told me last year the “3” was in reference to a third testicle which, in light of the clientele playing here, would not be shocking. Nobody here is “normal,” not by any definition. Apparently it was simply the effects of mixing potent neurological drugs with early AM vodka, chasing them with beers while playing golf in a blast furnace for three days. Turns out Scott (real name) was a “3” handicap and had the career-ending misfortune to play more like a 10 when first meeting the boys for a friendly game of Wolf.

They’re followed by another pair of highly acclaimed but socially challenged golfers, Danny and long-time guest Mickey. The former having the very popular cocktail “Dan Smith” graced with his moniker and the latter sporting a new set of irons, apparently still in plastic wrap, stating he feels confident of hitting them well because “they look good”…love the Mick. Then my favorite cigar smoking expletive using dentists; Joe Boesch and John Moynihan, good friend Pete Biava wearing his signature white belt and wife’s panties (a given with the belt), his guest and another great guy, John Seguin and on and on.

Finally run into one Norbeck buddy I have really been anxious to see; Gaiton Brunetto (incredibly, he’s NOT a gay pastry chef, not that there’s anything wrong with that). After playing against him and his partner Luke in 2009 and learning I have PD, he has called me every couple of weeks to see how I’m doing. Not just cursory calls, but actually engaging and concerned. Friends like this are rare and I have a bunch of them here at Norbeck…I don’t know what I have done to deserve them but they are incredibly special to me. Gaiton says he has something to give us but it will have to wait until we are all here. It is obvious Dave has not yet graced the grounds; things are relatively calm, guys are greeting each other civilly and you can actually hear other people talking. We agree to have a drink (shocking) and wait for the human tsunami to crash into the Clubhouse.

Since Daddy arrives close to tee off, it works out well, giving me ample time to fortify myself with copious painkillers flushed down with alcohol. I find I need both. His Loudness is fond of employing a catchy phrase, “Seriously, dude. Dude I’m serious” which he will use, by my count, about 2 million times. It’s neither erudite nor appropriate, just…well, just Dave.

I could be wrong; maybe it’s three million…

Once the dust settles from Dave’s rock star entrance, replete with abuse for and from the entire field, we catch up with Gaiton in the men’s grill. He’s holding a gift box and tells Luke, Dave and I that this is something to commemorate “The Brotherhood of the Cup.” The brotherhood began during the ’09 MG when we played an unbelievably slow match together and involved drinking ceremonial shots of Miller Lite (hey, we’re men of Norbeck) from a WVU-inscribed pewter shot glass and writing bylaws on a turtle’s belly (as stated above). He proceeds to distribute four incredibly cool shot glasses replete with silver plaques inscribed with the brotherhood and the date. This guy is too much. We all get choked up and devolve into sloppy man-love statements triggering a flurry of beer shots. Although most won’t really understand the significance, it’s a class gesture by a class guy, commemorating a friendship bonding the four of us forever.

Exit grill room needing to man-up from the estrogen infused scene with Gaiton and Luke. Take a breath and head out to play practice round with Knee and his son who round out our team. Good kid Jeff…wonder what the hell Rick was thinking introducing him to this crowd? What starts off promising, soon devolves into a grinding hack-fest due to lack of sleep, outside temperature of about 105, relentless sun and Dave crawling up my ass about the normal…why I’m not imbibing multiple vodka drinks and hydrating with Miller Lite. Stunned at my ignorance for maintaining a healthy balance, I concede to a couple of beers and one Dan Smith before we play 8-man Wolf. Hate that game. If you aren’t playing well (see Stark, Brian) you end up costing guys money, not to mention losing a bunch yourself. Apparently that’s not true since I took $4 from “dude, I’m serious, no, seriously dude,” even after playing like shit.

Arrive back at clubhouse and learn Skills Contest is postponed until tomorrow due to bad weather moving in…bummer. Right now all I want is a shower and some much needed sleep.

All in, 2011 MG is off to a decent start.

Get back to Chateau Ryan, Dave’s beautiful daughter Sophia offers to act as my Sherpa and together we lug enough suitcases up to the 4^th floor that if necessary I could stay for six months. Take 20-minute cold shower to cool down and hit the rack. Day one’s over and nobody got hurt…beautiful.

OK, it’s starting. Get up at 3 a.m. for the obligatory night piss and discover the toilet in the Attic Suite has a Flipper issue requiring me to remove the tank top every time I use it. Contemplate my options and boil them down to three…ask Dave to fix the problem (immediately discard), pee in sink (have to brush my teeth – discard) or live with it, which I do. I’m guessing the ants won’t make the hike to this elevation. Flush, fix and go back to bed.

Friday, Day Two:

Day breaks early, around 5 a.m. in the higher atmosphere on the 4^th floor where the air is thinner. Put on oxygen mask, purchased for small fee charged at check-in, and head to shower. No complaints there. I get dressed and call for the gondola to take me to the kitchen.

Meet Dave and it appears he’s stressing over what to wear…odd, his normal ensemble consists of wrinkled shirt, shorts with no belt and some form of casual footwear. For a minute I experience an out-of-body event, I think I’m at my buddy Z’s place. I do a quick scan of the kitchen and see plates out, dishes in the sink and a couple of cereal boxes on the counter and figure it can’t be. Just to be sure I do a quick pivot and check an end table and see none are sporting “Z-bumpers” on the corners. I’m at the right house…followed by realization Dave isn’t stressing over what to wear, just trying to figure out what the stain on his shirt is and when he got it there. Once Alice reminds him he wore it to the Corner House for pizza last week he is good to go…

Stop at Dunkin and pick up donut holes for the cart guys again. Didn’t know how good Dave was in math…figured a hole-and-a-half per keeps it right at a dozen. Arrive at club, drop off donuts and head to breakfast. Meet gang in bar where we order the first of a couple dozen Dan Smiths while engaging in de rigueur ball-busting then cruise into buffet. Chow down on bacon, sausage and eggs, a little salmon with capers, coffee and juice then wait for the inevitable gastronomical results. Within 15 minutes you can’t find an empty stall and the noise is reminiscent of the big cat section of the zoo. Low guttural rumblings and God awful moaning. Having learned from past experience, I’m girdled up with Depends and ready to roll.

First match is with a father-son team; Greg and son George Mattson. Dad Greg is really nice and George can just bomb it…“Daddy hits it far” has work to do here. Find out George is a 6 from Baltusrol, an unbelievably historic club up in my home state NJ; immediately look for a way to finagle a round. After first couple holes, realize my play isn’t going to do it so I try sucking up…fail miserably as does our effort and we lose down 2. Dave says although he carded a 46 he didn’t really have any “bad” shots and that if I played better than my 48 we might have had a chance. I remind him I’m a 21 and he’s a 7 and get the first of “Dude, seriously, I’m hitting it far.” Hitting it straight however, is never mentioned…

Second match we hook up with Jim Martin who has an infectious laugh reminding me of the rooster cartoon character Fog Horn Leg Horn and his partner Dave Bausch who used to be a member here at Norbeck. They play well and we start to play better resulting in a 1-up win for team Ryan. Dave is coming around. I can tell because his drives aren’t going as far into the trees and his ranting “Dude, dude, seriously dude, Daddy is hitting it far” has increased in pitch and frequency. I feel we’re beginning to jell.

Break for lunch and see we’re semi in the hunt…only Jim Martin and his guest have a bunch of points but that’s due in large part to their playing Billy Nolan and his guest, which as it turns out, is analogous to clubbing defenseless baby seals. Conventional wisdom suggests Team Nolan has the inside track for nailing down the second most prestigious title that of Pinehurst Flight Piñatas. Slam some food and listen as Dave recants his play to an adoring throng of equally uninterested well-wishers all hoping we collapse since we were lucky enough to win two years running. Actually not true, everybody wants someone to win if it can’t be them and we seem a respectable choice right behind cholera and dysentery.

Match three starts off well, with us playing Bob Perry Jr. and his guest Mike Brocato. Good guys both. Although I am totally spent due to incredible heat, foot cramps and lack of sleep, I enjoy the match for a couple of reasons. One, I’m playing better and two, Dave’s dropping me off at my ball so I’m out of the cart and don’t have to endure the relentless onslaught of “Dude, Daddy is long. Seriously, Dude did you see that shot?” Bob’s very good and he’s tough to beat when he’s putting well, which he is. His partner Mike has the longest swing I’ve ever seen, club comes so far over he makes Gumby look stiff…hits it far when he connects but it is hard to control and we’re able to sneak by with another 1-up win.

Back to clubhouse for late dinner; slam down steak, a gin and tonic, a couple of beers, stumble out to car and back to my mountain top retreat. Arrive at Dave’s and I’m shot. Thank God Sophia is up, what a sweet girl, and with Dave’s strength meets me at the door and carries me to my room.

Day two is in the books and we’re back to even.

Saturday, Day Three:

Get up early and notice, since I’m at elevation, there’s three inches of powdered snow on the floor. Undeterred, I Iditarod down to shower, shave and put on my lucky yellow plaid shorts worn during last year’s Shoot Out. They’re a little stiff, since I didn’t want to wash out the good karma, but I’m pretty sure they’ll loosen up in the predicted 90+ degree heat. Grab donuts on way and day three is a “go.”

First match is going to be fun, Bob Perry Sr. and his guest George Merriman. These guys are great, a little up in age but still have game. We play our best 9 holes and take 3…should have been 4 if I could have remembered Dave telling me I was getting a stroke on 13 and didn’t cavalierly wave at my first miss and knock it three feet past the cup then pick it up. Dave gently reminds me of the fact adding “dude, seriously, you did say you have Parkinson’s not Alzheimer’s right?”…I tell him I can’t remember and walk back to the cart. Nonetheless, the pit in my stomach tells me we might get in the playoffs after all.

Check board and we’re gaining ground. Pop customary 12 pack of anti-acid in dreaded anticipation of Shoot-out and head over to 1 where we find Billy Nolan and his detective buddy already on tee. Billy is beautiful, a cross between Danny Bonaduce of the Partridge Family, Ron Howard when he was Opie in the Andy Griffin Show and Foster Brooks the perennial drunkard who graced the Dean Martin roasts. Add in a penchant for early AM, late AM, early PM, late afternoon and evening alcohol consumption and that pretty much gets you close. His guest, strangely enough, is a member of law enforcement for the county, which, if you have spent anything over five minutes with Billy, you would have to agree makes this guy the Ying to Billy’s Yang. Play a few holes and find out the detective is an undercover officer. His area of expertise? High-end perverted behavior. Wow, did he hit the mother lode coming here! Play a few more holes and he lets slip he was invited as part of a quid-pro-quo. Billy brings him as his guest and in exchange he’s expunged from a list developed to ID suspected serial killers…symbiotic, yet worrisome.

Everybody plays as expected…Dave hits it far, I hit it often, the guest with the gun hits as many as he wants and Billy drinks beer. We finish 2 up and we’re in as Flight Champions.

Shoot Out – Well, here we are. Weren’t supposed to be here, but here we are…going for the three-peat. Although my foot is cramping and I’m hovering between passing out or throwing up, I feel a responsibility to my partner. By this time, Dave has managed to consume the optimal blend of beers, water and vodka to reach the highly sought, yet rarely achieved, zone of perfection.

13^th Hole – Go over to 13 and am subjected to a barrage of “How did this happen?” and “We can’t win” which then mellows to a more reasonable, “If we win, you have to contract another disease because just having Parkinson’s isn’t going to cut it.” I truly feel as though he is finally coming around…

Dave proceeds to hit a drive about 340 around the bend, once again making me last to hit in the alternate-shot format. As we get to my ball I am seriously concerned that if I don’t hit a perfect shot my buddy is going to embed himself in my ass in front of the gathering horde. No worries, hit a pretty good shot and land it near the flag, unfortunately, it doesn’t stick and rolls about eight feet off. Shockingly, Dave announces to the crowd “dude, seriously. See that large shaved area called a green? That’s where the ball should be.” This is met with much hilarity from the adoring crowd. Three guys later, it’s my partner’s turn. He sets. He swings and now the ball is only four feet off that large shaved area he was telling me about…do I get a sheepish smile and an apology? I get, “Dude seriously, that was so close to being perfect.” Only it wasn’t. I putt from there and run it about 30 feet past…almost perfect. He hits it up to four feet. I make and we move to 14 needing something good to happen.

14^th Hole – My turn to showcase the Stark magic…pull driver, which I have been hitting well, and proceed to knock one into the shit about 175 down the hill. Dave has nothing. What he does on his turn is hack out a miracle 8 iron leaving me a clear shot at the green. Is there more Stark magic? My turn, I take an 8 iron and hit it clean, so clean it once again lands on the green, stays for a nanosecond, and then bounces to a small strip of grass just behind the bunker, on the hill, with no shot. Thank God Dave is there to console me. I guess “Dude, seriously?” is consolation…quickly followed by “That’s my partner…dude, see that big green shaved area…” Feeling the love, I slink to the side of the green and watch as the other teams go until it’s Dave’s turn. An impossible shot, he sets, swings and hits an incredible 60 deg. Lob…dude seriously, it was incredible. Lands it soft and it starts rolling to the cup…it’s going to go in and I’m going to start crying again. Closer and closer until it rims the damn cup and slides about two feet away. Right, I miss the putt and we’re out.

Finals & Award Dinner – Watch the final and it’s a great match. I don’t know the guys on either team and I am mentally shot from self-destructing, so not much else to say other than congratulations to both the teams making it. I know how tough that can be.

Go back to Dave’s and shower, grab our Norbeck jackets won the previous year, throw our designated date, Dave’s brother-in-law and my cardiologist Greg Truth, in the car and head back to close out the event. Get there and it is kind of melancholy, knowing its over till next year. Find there are a couple of other past winners wearing the jackets and it dawns on me we look like we belong at Hogwarts. Kinda cool though…convene in bar (where else?) and spend some time talking with a guy who makes me laugh doing his South Philly/Rocky impersonation. Chris Burns can talk South Philly better than some who live there. Over cocktails he tells me he sends this drivel out to his employees all over the world and how they ding him asking when the next installment is coming out. Note to Burnsie…time to re-evaluate your workforce. After awards are handed out and the party starts ramping up, we retire back to the bar where I think they’re getting low on vodka so I order a scotch and shake hands, hug and toast with all the great friends I have made here over the years and end up staying until about midnight. Everything is perfect.

Well, except for the image burned into my cerebral cortex of Billy Nolan. Get a heads-up to check out the scene unfolding back in the ballroom. Walk in and am treated to the sight of Nolan, red-faced and sweating, out on the dance floor with some unsuspecting woman looking only to enjoy the good music, rough-riding and slapping his ass as he twirls an imaginary lasso and air-humping any moving object within 20 feet. Hey, we’re men of Norbeck…Billy, you’re a peach.