Thursday, Day One:
Up early and very cranky due to not being packed and not already at Dave’s. On Wednesday with about three hours left before my bank closes, I’m informed I need to find a notary and two witnesses and then complete and overnight a closing package that could pass for a Manhattan phonebook and send it back to my realtor. Glad I listened when Dave suggested I invest in Southwest Florida real estate with his astute observation, “Look, you buy down there and with reciprocity you won’t feel guilty for using my beach house in Bethany!” Dave may be a lot of things, but he’s always thinking of others.
9:00 a.m. – Leave house for a 1:30 tee time armed with Dave’s directions and a back-up GPS. Notice my foot and ankle are starting to swell but attribute it to the overall lousy shape I’m in so I think nothing of it. Four hours into the ride, my ankle the size of a grapefruit, I realize I’m approaching Annapolis. Call Dave. Ask if there is a slight chance he neglected to enlighten me they moved the club. The bitching begins immediately. “You follow my directions?” Which of course, I did. This is quickly followed up by “So, you’re lost?” The Dalai Lama has nothing on my buddy.
Plug-in GPS and arrive 10 minutes later.
I no sooner pull in the parking lot and I’m enveloped in a cold sweat, I don’t want to leave my car and the flashbacks of ’07 and ’08 begin. 2007 was bad, last year worse. I remember I ingested enough DDT to drop a mid-sized pachyderm when Dave, in a failed attempt to eradicate the approximately four million ants staging a rally in my guest bathroom sink, decided it was “OK” to carpet-bomb the general area, including my toiletries, resulting in me becoming dangerously ill. At the end of last year’s match play we’re a pair, one drooling, shaking and stumbling shot to shot, the other with Parkinson’s. Nonetheless, we took our Flight and Dave is credited with medical first. His 1:1 swap-out of essential bodily fluids for a vodka-based composite allowed him to play his next match nude in a blizzard and never feel the cold.
12:30 p.m., Practice Round – Arrive at club after driving four and a half hellish hours in shit traffic and I’m warmly greeted by guys I see once a year. Pete, Gaiton, Luke, Tarbs, Mickey, Dan, Benji, Chris, Knee, Groin, Elbow and a couple of other guys using body parts in lieu of names, all wishing me luck. Dave? See him way too much apparently. Quick hello followed by, “Dude, Daddy came to play.” After which he informs me I don’t have time to use the facilities because we’ll be late teeing off. He quickly allays my concern of pissing in my new Polo shorts by telling me, “It’s OK. Daddy’s been hitting it far.”
This exchange precipitates intense mental debate – leave now, drive four hours back in rush-hour traffic and hope I hit an abutment, or stay another three days living and playing with Dave while he incessantly repeats to no one in particular how good “Daddy’s” playing. By a razor-thin margin I elect to stay, based solely on the desire to spend some quality time with the rest of the boys and pray either Dave succumbs to early-onset alcohol poisoning or someone has a guest drop out.
1:30 p.m. – Begin practice round by meeting the two Miller brothers on the tee followed immediately by Dave telling them he’s sorry we’re late. Actually says he’s not late; we’re late because I didn’t follow his meticulous directions, which they were…only to a Club located somewhere on the Eastern Shore.
Good guys, the Millers. Actually seem very normal, especially for Norbeck. This perception lasts about five minutes until Steve tells me he’s been paying dues for 11 years as an out-of-town member and this is the third round he’s played in those 11 years and he decides he wants to play it with “Dude, I’m killing it!” I rethink my earlier options and ask Steve if he wants to ride shotgun if I decide to take on the abutment.
1:35 p.m. – On queue, Dave volunteers his pre-shot dissertation. The topic? Why isn’t everyone else imbibing vast quantities of alcoholic beverages pre-tee off and blowing a 2.5? His erudite conclusion, slurred magnificently during my backswing: if you’re not, you’re a pussy and shouldn’t be out here. All class, all the time…
It’s five minutes into the first hole and already I’m considering slicing my tee-shot in Dave’s direction. I determine my chances for a hit are good. His head is so large there isn’t significant room for error even if I pull the ball; his mouth never stops so not seeing him isn’t a problem. What is, however, is the fact that I don’t hit the ball hard enough to inflict any substantive damage, and if I do manage a kill shot, will a Parkinson’s defense hold up in court?
6:00 p.m. – Finish round out of the money. Dave explains it’s OK though, it was a match of cards (?)…Oh, and “Dude, I’m crushing it.” I let the “match of cards” comment go unchallenged, painfully aware he has concocted some sort of oblique connect-the-dots logic borne of alcohol poisoning. His ad-nauseum rant leaves me no option other than to kill him. I begin thinking of alibis…
6:25 p.m. – We leave Club early since skills contest is put off until tomorrow. Bummer. I really like showcasing my ineptitude in front of 100 guys who, for the past eight or nine hours, have substituted vodka for oxygen and therefore are so juiced you can clearly make out the profanity-laced critiques two counties over. Originally designed by The Marquis de Sade and refined over time by Clark, Norbeck’s resident pro, the skills contest is structured specifically to satisfy hardcore sadists and Member-Guest attendees. In its current format, inebriated participants desperately seek glory by competing in a gladiatorial-like forum while the remaining inebriated onlookers engage in an exquisite brand of verbal torture. After enduring nine or 10 hours chain-smoking cigars in 100 degree heat and consuming enough alcohol to power a Boeing for a trans-Atlantic flight, participating has a fun factor similar to peeling the skin from one’s body.
Actually, this event was made for Tarbs, providing him a bully pulpit from which he can entertain the assembled masses with his always witty, much appreciated critiques of those less fortunate…“You suck” and “sit down” typically exhaust his repertoire.
By the time we reach Dave’s, I’m deaf from listening to his interminable talking and limping like Chester from Gun Smoke. Without asking why I’m trailing ten yards behind and grimacing in pain, he proudly informs me he fumigated the entire basement with DDT and spent $500 on a new showerhead, all so I wouldn’t have anything bad to say if I did an ‘09 re-cap. Good luck with that.
He hands me a towel and an EPA bio suit and tells me he’s going to bed. Not unreasonable as it’s almost 8:30 at night and he has a houseguest. Limp downstairs, go into shower and immediately lose the top two layers of epidermis. This is due to “Daddy’s” desire to minimize time guests spend rinsing by removing the flow regulator from the plumbing. Bruised and bleeding, limp to bed and dream of Sunday morning when I can leave.
Friday, Day Two:
Up at 4:30 a.m. as directed, listen for Dave hoping he made coffee. No luck, struggle up stairs get pot brewing and retreat to basement praying for 10 minutes of solitude. Not happening. Dave yells down to hurry up, he’s ready, and really, if you know him, that’s all that matters. Get wise-ass reminders every three minutes how I’m “killing” him. If only it was that easy.
5:30 a.m. – Make my way upstairs where he hands me a giant roadie, tells me coffee is for pussies and we head to Dunkin Donuts where he purchases a large assorted box for the cart guys. Arrive at club, he parks my car (which he tells me is more appropriate to arrive in at an outing such as this than a Honda with 400,000 miles and whose floor you can’t find due to the collection of garbage you’d usually encounter at a land-fill) and tells me to grab the donuts and his shoe bag because he has to get in and order our drinks before the vodka’s gone. I remind him it’s 6:10 in the morning. Begin to argue, then see Benji and Mickey already parked and gone; tell Dave, “run.”
I stumble out looking like a crippled Himalayan sherpa resplendent in logo’d polo attire with my arms full of crullers and all I hear is Dave, mouth going non-stop, giving shit to any and all within range. Of course with a mouth as big as his, that pretty much covers the entire field. Meanwhile, I hand the donuts to Clark, tell him they’re from me and make my way to the buffet. Chase down my bacon and eggs with another Dan Smith then start to worry this will become my breakfast of choice, but upon further reflection it dawns on me that I’m OK. I don’t drink early because I like it; I do it because I’m Dave’s partner. My fear abated, I order two to go and head out to our first match.
8:00 a.m., Match 1 – Arrive at tee half buzzed and find the brothers Mountcastle waiting. This is standard procedure since Dave needs to scream at everyone about how good he’s playing, played or intends to play, before we depart…and while we depart…and throughout the day…and all during the tournament. Nonetheless, I get out shake hands and wait for the inevitable sibling rivalry to begin. I have brothers, I know. If Tiger had one and they were playing, I’d bet against them. This match should be a lock. Quickly see why I’m not setting the line as a sports handicapper in Vegas.
First couple holes Dave plays well; I suck and tell him I’ll need more time to get it going. I astutely conclude this because my system, used to gently absorbing morning coffee, is now dealing with three shots of vodka thrown at it at 6:00 a.m. and is contemplating which direction to send last night’s dinner for quickest removal. Called a pussy by Dave; don’t care.
Three holes in and oblivious to anything or anyone not related to him, he screams, “Dude, Daddy’s happy” so I leave it at that. First matches are usually the toughest, it takes him a while to attain that perfect curve of hard liquor and beer. Too little vodka and you might actually feel that blinding jolt to your heart caused by ingesting two cups of bacon grease at breakfast. Too much vodka…right, we win 1-up.
11:00 a.m., Match 2 – Go to assigned hole and meet up with two guys who I really enjoy playing, Joe Boesch and John Moynihan. These are my kind of guys, cigar smoking and expletive using dentists. I hand each a decent Nat Sherman and Joe responds with a Cuban Cohiba that has to go for $20. Fire-up and begin quick calculation correlating length of cigar, times width, divided by puffs-per-hole, and determine I’m going to need overtime to ask for another.
Joe is great, reminds me of Ian Poulter only with better bicuspids. He really has it working; colorful clothes, fine jewelry and game. Also has more statistics then ESPN. Charts, graphs and PowerPoint preso’s on situational analysis…
Dave plays great; I limp along contributing on maybe two holes. No worries, I receive a free check-up and a mini-consult on a bridge replacement. Add-in the Cohiba, I’m way ahead.
Eke out second 1-up win, head to lunch.
1:15 p.m. – 2 p.m., Lunch – Hook up with usual crew for mid-day ball busting and refueling. Not there five minutes and immediately sense trouble. Apparently the backup tanker Smirnoff had on stand-by was stuck in heavy beltway traffic. Swat team headed up by Danny, Mickey and Benji, immediately begins assessing logistics and supply-chain issues while a macro feasibility study is assigned to Z, Knee and Tarbs to determine alternate routing and possible emergency air-drop. Miraculously this entire episode escapes my partner since he’s laser focused on recanting all his good shots to anyone who’ll listen. By now it’s down to three cart guys and someone trying to find the men’s room. Point out a gardener he missed and go check board; see we’re in the mix which precipitates slamming lunch so “Dude, Daddy’s playing Great” doesn’t lose his edge. Actually he wants to get back out before the combustible combination of nine beers, seven mixed drinks plus a cheese omelet and pound of bacon ferment, results in him having his stomach pumped by US Air and the contents used as jet fuel.
2:15 p.m., Match 3 – Arrive at tee late, in part because my partner, so engrossed in telling anyone who would listen how he’s dragging me around and if I contributed AT ALL we might be in better position, leaves me back at the clubhouse. He drives off, gets halfway there and remembers the “Guest” part of the event. We’re tracking beautifully towards another shootout collapse.
This is our favorite match of the tournament. First time we played I read the name “Gaeton” and half expected a cross between an interior designer and possibly a pastry chef but instead found a true gentleman with the patience of Job and the constitution of a Brahma Bull. Needs both; he’s playing with Luke. Here’s a guy who’s kept a diary of each day’s events while playing at least 15 Norbeck Member- Guest’s. I later ask him to read me some entries captured over the years. Pick one, any year, they’re all the same: “Thursday, arrive at member guest for practice round, find Gaeton, find bar don’t remember anything else…think I had a good time.” “Friday, arrive for matches, find Gaeton, find bar, don’t remember anything else…must have had a great time. Feel like shit.” I patiently explain that is why you need a few weeks to completely detox prior to writing anything.
Afternoon play is predictably slow, arguably due to a number of factors. Locking up the top five are Beer, Vodka, Vodka, Beer and Alcohol “other.” This year we presented Luke a very cool WVU shot glass prior to starting the day. As play slows we fill the pewter mini-goblet and take turns shooting cold beer. Somewhere between the first and second holes of the match, “the Brotherhood of the Cup” was formed. Duly certified by Gaeton and made official by his writing in Sharpie ink on the belly of a turtle. Jefferson used parchment, we opted for a small reptile. We’re men of Norbeck
Win 1-up again. I begin to sweat heavily. Shootout is a real possibility.
8:30 p.m. – The usual…Drive back to Dave’s, take three minute shower to save remaining two layers of skin, pry 64 oz. Dan Smith from Dave’s semi-conscious hands and ask Sophia to tuck in her daddy. Watch 10 minutes of TV with Jake and Margarita while eating popcorn made for “Family Night” at the Ryan’s. Kiss Alice goodnight, tuck in kids and stagger down to bed.
Saturday, Day Three:
4:30 a.m. – Feel bad. Dave’s up. Says he’s doing email. Look at blank screen and remind Dave he’s currently unemployed and there’s nothing waiting in his inbox. He smiles, finishes the last of his first Dan Smith and says he needs five minutes. Leave for Dunkin in time to grab the “day olds” for the cart guys and Saturday is underway.
8:00 a.m., Match 1 – Arrive at tee late. Dave again. Meet two more good guys, Rick Karp and guest Rich Brown. They tee off and we find Rich has game and likes to talk. We tee off and they discover “daddy hits it far,” who hits as he’s telling them how good he’s playing. They fail to notice me as I hit. They’re still watching Dave’s ball in flight. By second hole we’re exchanging stories and Rick says he does event parking and names some huge affairs whereupon Dave quickly becomes his best friend. This precipitates a verbal tsunami that doesn’t end when we get in the carts. Dave begins riding parallel so he can nail free parking for Rick’s next 10 events. Two holes and Rich and I are ready to marry the two, stick them in a cart where they can rapturously hold discourse on the complexities involved with directing poor slobs to the one spot in a grass field they can park, so we might actually get some golf in.
During a lull I ask Rich what he does. He answers, between chain-smoking a half dozen cigarettes. He was a cardiologist. Tells a story of his first heart attack, which happened while fishing in some exotic place. Says he just put down the rod, lit up and waited to get Air-Evac’d out. I ask if he would consider taking me as a patient since I smoke three cigars while playing a round of golf and am tired of my guy giving me shit.
We win 2-up after Rick’s back goes south and Doc prescribes some neat painkillers that finally cause Rick to stop talking…and moving…and breathing.
10:30 a.m., Match 2 – Arrive at tee, late, due to Dave riding over to check standings. Find we need to just win and we secure first-place in Flight. Dave launches into inspirational speech comparing our situation to that of the British during the bombing of London. Except his version is slightly different as it consists of 10 minutes of him recapping his stellar play and reminding me I have yet to contribute. Churchillian, yet not.
Meet last pairing of Henry Meadows and guest Rich Henning. Nice guys for sure and Dave says they play tough. I wouldn’t know. I was fighting the pre-catatonic state of absolute dread that usually attacks when I think we’re going to be in the shootout. Whole match is a blur except for the part where Dave says encouragingly at the end of the 2-up win, “Brian, I know you are courageously fighting some serious physical and neurological battles and I am proud of the way you hung in my brother”.
Unfortunately, it came out, “Dude, you sucked.”
12:30 p.m., The Shootout – This is the culmination of all my fears.
I readily concede Dave played great during match play. He always does. It’s when everything is on the line, when people come out to see “The Big Boys hit the Big Shots,” when you need to “elevate,” “step up,” “take responsibility” and be there for your neurologically challenged partner with the 25 handicap and nice shorts. That’s when the lead seems to leave “Daddy’s” pencil. For two and a half days he’s amazing, crushing drives, nailing irons, putting great, all while consuming enough vodka and beer to power a small metropolis…like New York City. Of course if you were there this is not news since Dave feels it’s important to tell everyone, individually, how well he’s done, doing or plans on doing.
Ten Flight winners and 10 runners-up, throw in hundred plus members and their guests, pickled from three straight days of binge drinking, Clark, his staff, front office, course maintenance, kitchen and food service staffs, pool goers and Manny…he’s the guy Dave met while relieving himself in the woods who’s indigent and looking for lost balls to sell so he could feed his family. Dave, sensing this was someone who possibly hadn’t heard how well he was playing, immediately engages. Last seen running through traffic, we wish Manny all the best.
As in past years, the assembled gallery sits waiting, watching for that first sub-par shot to bore into some poor bastards ass after laying out mortgage and grocery money in parimutuel bets. Studies show a direct lineage of many in the unruly throng to Romans who sat enthralled as slaves were being fed to the lions.
Shootout – Hole 13 – Dave informs me he’s going first as I begin throwing up. As expected he bombs his tee ball 270 around the corner and at least 30 yards ahead of anyone else. When he returns to the cart I tell him “nice shot” to which I get back “I know” His strategy? Simple, “hit it far,” garner the rapturous “oohs” and “ahh’s” from the crowd, end of strategy. While other teams settle for shorter, more thoughtful shots that complement their partner’s strengths, “Daddy hit’s it far” leaves me a 20-yard choker in front of a steep bunker to an elevated green sloping away. As I sit watching the others hit in from more preferable angles, I ask Dave, “was that our best play?” To which I am graced with another glassy-eyed “daddy hit’s it far.” Just when you think you have witnessed the best of Dave he lowers the bar.
Finally, it’s my turn to hit. The green, which I can’t see, is surrounded by a hundred people I can. Dave’s encouraging words? DO NOT leave it short and don’t go long. Short = bad, long = bad, perfect = good. I close my eyes and lift a wedge over the bunker and onto the green. Crowd responds favorably, Dave blades the birdie putt but it was close enough that it didn’t matter. We advance to 14.
Shootout – Hole 14 – My turn on the tee and a hole I usually use driver on, not my best attribute and I’m going last. I ask Dave if I should hit 3-wood instead. His reply, shockingly heard by everyone including the gallery, “Dude, you need all you got…it’s 175 down-hill, down-wind”. I start to pray he stands somewhere I can duck-hook my shot off that melon of his. I hit driver 190-200 leaving Dave a shot in the fairway. “Daddy” leaves me a testicle tightening short-sided chip on a downhill green, telling me I’m “strong” from there. Once again demonstrating his subtle mastery of my limited skills, I set, commit to the shot and pray I don’t screw this up. Leave my partner a thee-footer for par, he converts, we advance.
Shootout – Hole 16 – Things are starting to get ugly, teams are being eliminated and Tarbs has assumed a leadership position within the mob. A good shot is needed here and Dave should stick this close. It’s a par 3, over water, maybe 170. I sit watching the horde assembled along the ridge overlooking the hole and hope Dave gives me an easy shot. I guess a flared-out 7-iron leaving me 20-yards wide of a green the size of a shopping center with another trap to clear from heavy rough could be considered “easy.” Dave tells me it’s perfect.
By now I sense, even smell, defeat. Dave knows that I know; he’s running on the rims. As he babbles to the remaining contestants that he purposely left me that shot, one could begin to detect, ever so faintly, the now familiar scent of self-doubt. I lob onto the sloping green and it trickles off. Dave’s left with a 30 footer, up-hill. He’s made two of these already today but short-arms his effort and it comes to rest in the vomit zone, three feet out. After Benji drains one of similar length, I make the putt and Dave tells me it’s all coming together…Bravo Davy, Bravo!!
As I limp to the cart he calls me back. I figured to tell me again how well his strategy of missing greens is working out. Instead he hands me my wedge and tells me I have to chip-off against a couple of guys before we advance. I figure it’s my turn so I don’t think to question. One guy chips at a time, the other two can’t look. Harvey chips first and the crowd responds with clapping and cheers. Z’s next. I hear the click of the ball, then more cheers. My hands are sweaty and my heart’s beating through my chest. I look over at Dave and he calmly informs me it’s in my hands now, he has done all he could do for me this hole. I fight the urge to hit him with the 60 degree figuring I need at least a 4-iron just to get his attention.
I suspect there were three options available for him to rationalize why he picked his injured, 25-handicapped partner to chip. A, he knew I hated extra pressure and decided a tough-love approach was in order, or B, he wanted to provide me an opportunity to “grow” as a golfer, or the winner, C, he left his 60 Deg in his bag and didn’t feel like walking back.
I hit and I think I’m going to be short. Oh shit! I’m not going to “get it to the hole”…one of Dave’s “go button” issues with me. I want to run but my ankle’s killing me, Dave’s going to go nuts. I want to ask for “five” and I can’t because I’m not breathing. I stand there, watching the ball slowly roll, and roll, and roll to about two feet. Crowd starts cheering and I think we have a chance, we do, and we’re in the finals. With Benji and Z, it couldn’t be better.
Shootout – Hole 17 – I am the last to complain of having Parkinson’s. I know I could have been tagged with way worse. Say an extra-large head for example. In my case, it’s not that bad. I get to go to nice golf courses for our annual fundraisers, I’m in high demand to make martinis and when I’m in a boring business meeting I casually place my hand in my pocket and have a party for one. However, a couple of months ago I was presented a fun new symptom. I cry a lot…Cialis commercials when the guy and girl hold hands in separate bathtubs, Hallmark cards and some beer commercials. Cry, cry, and cry. It’s all very embarrassing. I mention this because from the chip off until I got home Sunday morning and every time I would tell the story I would cry. I’m filling up writing this.
The following is how I remember the 17th and while there might be some debate, one thing is certain: It may have been the most exciting and wonderful experience of my life next to my family. Best of all, I was able to share it with some of the greatest guys I have ever met.
Arrive at tee box, have a group hug, begin to cry. Good start. Benji goes first and hits an iron 220 in the fairway…what a dick. I just cried hugging the jerk. I stand on the tee and look out at all the carts and want to savor the moment, or vomit. I take a slow backswing to avoid missing the ball altogether and let it go…190, in the fairway, right edge. My job for the moment over, I shake my way back into the cart. As we approach my tepid tee-shot, Davy asks what I would like him to shoot. Is this a trick question? I tell him “me.”
By now the pressure is so intense I’m drooling like a St. Bernard and last night’s dinner is conspiring with today’s breakfast to figure out which end would cause the most distress. I readily concede I am not that good a golfer and this is excruciating. At any moment I’m going to wake-up and revert back to inconsistent play and be faced with “cranky Dave,” a Dave I try hard to avoid. In the end I tell him hit whatever will leave me in range of my utility club, something I at least have a chance to make contact with. So, he does. Only it’s a different utility club than the one I had in mind. “Daddy” pulled a 2-wood, something he’s been smoldering all tournament. I was actually worried he’d hit it too far and leave me a bunker shot. No worries on that front.
It’s curious, actually. Hard to explain, 5-iron, 6-iron or 2-wood, doesn’t matter. Some weird freak of nature, no, not Tarbs, conspires to morph “Daddy hits it far” into Norbeck’s version of “Shankapotomus.” No matter, as I start to pull my “other” rescue club from the bag Dave begins apologizing. I make the fatal mistake of telling him not to worry; it was a pressure shot anyone could have choked. In retrospect, I should have shut-up. My poor choice of descriptor has reinvigorated my partner and as I address the ball he has already reminded me of six instances where only through his outstanding play we were able to even MAKE the Shoot Out. He then starts a Plus/Delta exercise noting his contributions versus mine and manages a, “Don’t leave it short” in the middle of my backswing.
After two 2nd place finishes where my partner gets us to the precipice only to be denied, I am determined to drag him across the finish line. I’m suddenly calm, either I am miraculously cured of shaking or the Doc’s special pills I bummed during our match have finally kicked in. I hit a good shot leaving us 25-30 yards from the pin. I turn to Dave and use the successful method of inspiration he used on me, “dude, could you suck any more?” Apparently, yes, he could.
Now here’s the beauty of our being a mature team. Past experience has taught Dave never, not ever, to leave me with something remotely manageable. Because, if I don’t make it and he subsequently bores into me without end, shouting to the assembled crowd how “if you can’t make that you shouldn’t be out here,” he is faced with “vindictive Brian” who, after we would once again lose, would write terrible things about him…like now.
That in mind, Dave brilliantly runs his chip 25 feet past. My admiration and deep feelings of respect only grow as I watch his bladed offering keep rolling past the vomit zone and into the “if I lag one close I’m OK” zone. I turn to Dave, understanding his intentions were well founded. Leave me with an impossible putt that I will lag somewhere in the vicinity of the cup, letting him make the save and possibly not tank on the next hole thus salvaging some much needed respect.
As I walk out onto the green it’s as if I’m seeing through someone else’s eyes. I see Z and Benji standing by their ball and Dave walking over to help read the putt. It’s surreal. I don’t belong here. This happens to other guys, not me and not in my condition. I literally am weeping as I approach the ball and while the disease has been kind to me so far, right now I curse it for robbing me of the chance to walk steady and be in control. Clark tells me it’s my turn to go, I ask Dave what he thinks (shows the mental state I’m in). My guy just chunked a 2-wood 120yds then thins a 15 yd chip 25 ft by the hole and I’m looking for a read? I ought to cry. Dave gives me his take and I agree, it’s fast and it’s going to slide.
I have an un-lit cigar clenched in my teeth I’m using as a security blanket, I’m starting to shake, which probably worked in my favor and you could have heard a pin drop. 100+ men drinking all day and not a sound. I take the putter back, thinking “holy shit” I can do this. Then for a fleeting second I think “holy shit” what if I DO make it? Am I going to soil myself in front of my nice Norbeck buddies? Nope, I feel pretty fucking good. Adrenaline is money. I’d like to bottle it. I release the putter and stand there watching, like everyone else. It looks good right from the start; I am frozen. As it rolls nearer I think, “wow, this has potential.” Can I do something better than just standing there with a dead cigar hanging limply in my mouth? No, I can’t. It gets within a foot and I see Benji and Z start to actually smile. How cool is that? I love those guys, they’re about to lose after playing so hard and they’re smiling. I think that was when I began to lose it. The ball starts slowing and for a moment looks like it’s going to stop short, then like the Nike commercial where Tiger’s putt hangs on the edge, it rolls in.
The rest is totally a blur, Dave giving me a bear hug, joined by Z and Benji for what seems like only seconds. Then walking off the green and Clark and his guys followed by Tarbs, Danny, Mickey, Pete, Chris and all the others I consider friends, and others who’s names escape me, hugging and shaking hands. All of you have made that moment in time one I never will forget.
Prologue here.
For last year’s circus see here.
Ex-Bell Guy 