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…

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.

2010 Tribute to Me

June 27, 2010

Dave; It’s been a couple of weeks since the Norbeck Member Guest and I have replayed countless times the speech you delivered the night we won. It was touching, sensitive, emotional . . .  but mostly, it was brilliant. Employing your friend’s fatal illness as a way to mask your addiction of winning at all costs was . . . well, it was perfect!

Painting me as a stumbling, drooling, cripple, practically guaranteed no one will ever question my handicap. But you, you have witnessed my innate physicality and mental fortitude and therefore concluded no matter how bad the PD gets I will always be able to slap it around . . .  and, if bringing 38 or 40 shots? Good God man, it was beautiful!!

Although I do think it would be prudent to identify where this plan may have some weaknesses. First off, as we have witness many times in the not too distant past, when the Big Boys need to hit the Big Shots in the Big Shoot-out, the Big Daddy Express has experienced a proclivity to derail. But, now that I think about it, it IS perfect! As you sense victory slipping away and you begin to stumble and drool from the pressure, you unleash your Parkinson’s infected friend! The guy who has been shaking since he got there! The guy whose handicap can never be doubted! (Also the guy whose ball you have driven by after every tee shot, whose backswing you have consistently talked through and whose synapse are misfiring at an alarming pace . . . but I digress) Magnifique!

It’s very hard to be serious with something like that talk. It was considerate, caring, thoughtful . . . and it came from you? Can you blame me for struggling with how to respond? From the Top Gun dinner in ‘87 when I first was introduced to some guy running around half-faced telling everyone to call him “Maverick”, I knew I had made a friend. I just didn’t know how good a friend you would become. Despite the fact distance and circumstance have precluded seeing each other on any regular basis, when we do get together it’s as if we’re still at Eagle Lodge, still making each other laugh. Except that night I didn’t laugh, you made me cry . . . like a little girl . . . in front of 200 people . . . thanks, could you be a bigger dick?

The tribute you paid me, the life lesson you presented Jake and the way you so artfully captured our time together at Norbeck was, well it was beautiful. It was one of the most touching and articulate descriptions of friendship I have ever heard expressed . . . I hope you understand the level of my gratitude. Not for the kind words . . .  hell I write and say stuff all the time I don’t mean, like here for instance. But for what you have shared with me.

You have shared your family, your Mom and Dad, the Norbeck MG’s . . .  and I love them as if they were my own.

But even more important to me is how you make sure to stay in-touch, to check-in on me. To make sure I’m alright. Although there is a part of me that’s convinced you stay close to make sure I don’t break another body part, develop a new symptom or become destitute and move into a group home thereby forcing you to take Z to the Member Guest and another guaranteed runner-up slot . . . at least he’d have his socks pressed to counter your shirt hanging out.

Davy, I love you like a brother and appreciate all you have done for me more than you will ever know. This will self-destruct in 5 minutes, so read it fast . . .

 

Brian

2010 Norbeck CC Member-Guest Recap

After last year’s 2009 Member-Guest, I found I needed surgery to repair what I thought was a sprained ankle; and Dave figured was me being a pussy…no shock there. It turned out to be torn ligaments, tendons and a couple of other things resulting in a complete ankle reconstruction where they break the heel bone and move it over a bit, throw a couple of screws and pins in and sew you back up. The surgery was February 25^th followed with 10 weeks of non-weight bearing, four weeks with progressive weight bearing and rehab.

Things deteriorated right out of the gate. Initially tasked with promptly disposing the contents of my requisite pee bottle, Sally soon tired of getting buzzed on the intercom at 2:30 in the morning and ceased responding. Her lack of fortitude forced me to begin stockpiling empty Snapple bottles and bagging my bedtime cup of tea. The resultant stress manifested in an unhealthy desire to consume the deli hoagies and potato chips my mother would pick up while announcing, “It’s OK. They’re comfort foods.” The not-shocking consequence was an additional eight pounds of attractive ass-fat to a frame that didn’t need it…that and an emergency alteration of all golf attire.

Regarding my return to golf, I did have choices. I could go directly to Dave’s Thursday and play the practice round and listen to supportive comments like. “Are you EVER healthy?” and “Can you stop shaking, it’s distracting?” or take my buddy Z up on his offer to come down a couple of days early and play my first post-surgery golf at International CC. Quick Plus/Delta and I decided to accept Z’s offer. It’s a great track and the guys Z plays with are all very nice. Unfortunately for my training regime, no one was consuming mass quantities of vodka drinks pre-6 a.m.

I love staying with Z. His beautiful wife is a high-profile executive who happens to cook better than Rachael Ray. She has an intense schedule, comes home after working 12 hours, makes fabulous appetizers, serves incredible dinners and engages in erudite conversation. Gregg? Well, he also has a “schedule.” He gets up early, irons his socks, underwear and golf shirt; wipes down his sneaks then brings in the paper. Repeat every 24 hours.

His garage could pass for a Home Depot showroom but it’s the basement that worries me. It’s a great basement, most of it beautifully finished, but with a part set aside for a work area with tools, workbench and the obligatory chiller. To provide a better description, envision the kind of man-cave Felix Unger would occupy…neat racks with little jars holding screws and washers, organizers everywhere. But what I found most disturbing is the workbench actually has little cardboard “bumpers” on the corners. The experience forced me to question Z’s true orientation and the conclusion is obvious. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Just when I think it’s all good, I tell him I’m ready to leave for the club and my first round in over six months and he tells me to stop. He notices I have a wrinkle in my shirt. I think that strange, since I had just pulled it out of my suitcase where it had happily lain, co-mingled with all the other clothes I jammed in for the four and a half hour ride…

Nonetheless, I set about getting myself in shape for Dave’s tournament. Request vodka with breakfast, beers with lunch and close out with a smooth transition back to vodka for dinner…Norbeck’s version of South Beach. Training goes well but hits a snag when I introduce a cuvee’ of neurological drugs. I find they are having a deleterious effect on a couple of mildly important areas…focus, eye-hand coordination, balance…breathing…but figure a couple of strong Dan Smith’s pre-teeing will neutralize the problem .

After four days not sure where I am but feeling better prepared for what’s ahead.

Thursday, Day One:

Practice Round – Meet Dave at course for practice round since he has some family matters to deal with. Son Jake graduates from 8^th grade. Jake is someone special to me, he doesn’t know it of course, but he and the rest of Dave’s family all are. I have watched them grow up in increments of roughly one year at a time. A couple of years ago Jake asked me to observe an ad hoc experiment he was conducting out in the Ryan garage. He had found a small spider web and was feeding ants to the resident occupant…the not shocking discovery was male ants screamed louder than females when plunging to their doom. I told him this actually tracks perfectly with human behavior and, in fact, I have a similar reaction every time I get into a golf cart with his Dad.

Day officially begins with large vodka drink in the new men’s lounge. The one I gladly helped furnish though living 220 miles away so I can sit in it three days a year during the Member-Guest. There, Dave informs me we can’t win this year because we won last year. Having been in a couple of post-play shoot-outs that’s fine by me…100+ guys, almost all who are shitfaced, watching you gag while offering insightful commentary such as “you suck.” This gets him very emotional leading to a melancholy reenactment of all the great shots he made during the ’09 shoot-out, unfortunately for him, I was actually there. While Dave composes himself I bump into one of my favorite guys at the club, Pete Biava. Love Pete. He smokes cigars, which makes him macho, wears a white belt, which does not. This critique from a guy whose buttons are screaming and who drools on his shirts.

Find out we’re paired with Benji and his guest Mr. 2 Hit, Jeff Keitelman. Apparently Jeff struck a ball twice when playing a shot thereby earning the name, however being from New Jersey, I give the guy a little room. Anybody with a moniker of “Mr. 2 Hit” would have an altogether different reputation 200 miles north of here. Jeff’s also a member at the exclusive bastion, Columbia CC, making the question whether he’s a good guy or a good fellow moot. Either way, I want to be his friend. This, however, begs the question: Why is he playing Norbeck? One of only two reasons come to mind: (a) Benji is looking for reciprocity, clients, a favor, or all three and Jeff has nothing better to do (b) Jeff actually likes to drink, laugh and have a great time. My guess is (a).

I admire Benji; successful attorney, solid family man and socially responsible citizen. I visited his house recently and viewed a collection of family portraits. Bad move letting me near those. Hard to properly convey his disturbing metamorphosis from a 1960’s hirsute academic nerd to today’s Mexican-hairless attorney nerd. When sporting a goatee he has an eerie resemblance to Herb Albert, all that’s missing is the Tijuana Brass, give him back his coke-bottle glasses and you got Larry King, add-in hair and he tells you Brad Pitt. I would expect no less from a lawyer.

This year during the practice round he enjoys showcasing another of the many socially limiting attributes readily on display during Member-Guest festivities. His particular forte was the always popular, breaking-wind on command. Now I concede it’s a really cool way to garner attention and score with the ladies…but this year his behavior actually causes a problem with his guest. Not due to the toxicity of the expulsion, nor the breach of common decency, but because Mr. 2 Hit does not possess the requisite sphincter control to undertake such a high-risk maneuver. He is understandably “concerned” his efforts to emulate Benji’s gastro-inter/anal feats might result in something a bit more substantive. In a failed attempt to overcome his shortcomings, he spends the remainder of the day eating green leafed vegetables trying to work-up a rebuttal and is never a factor.

Run into Dave’s brother-in-law Danny, another crowd favorite and a great guy. Says they are without a pairing and have decided to play with us in six-man Wolf. Wolf is fun, if you’re good. If you’re not (see Stark, Brian A.) you run the risk of embarrassing yourself and losing your lunch money along with your pride. Betting is determined using a formula Steven Hawking would have trouble figuring out and at the end of the round I lose an acceptable $14. I am comforted after learning all winnings will help fund a counseling session for Dan’s long-time partner Mickey. The problem exacerbating this charitable gesture is the need to find a professional versed in a variety of unique and seriously abnormal behaviors, whose interpretation of “normal” is comprised of a loose set of metrics and who respects what could possibly be defined as “(way) out of the box” thinking. As of this writing, the search continues.

End up staying late, getting shit-faced and asking Dave to drive…a clear indication I want no part in living to see tomorrow. Vaguely remember stopping at 5 Guys Burgers, going in and staring vacuously at the wall waiting for Dave to return with food. Twenty minutes later I’m led out to my car and stumble in. Get to Dave’s where I mumble incoherently to Alice and her twin Margarita before staggering down the steps and falling asleep with my clothes on. God that was awful. Worse, I think somebody called me Billy Nolan.

Friday June 11, Day Two:

Match 1 – Up early and shower with clothes on due to extraordinary nozzle velocity. This because Dave decided to install a Power-Washer attachment in the shower to help eradicate the ant infestation of ’08 then leaving it in because, well, he’s Dave. This year I brought my old catcher’s cup to wear after getting the full force directly on “the boys” last visit and not being able to have sex for six months…Sally was devastated, she thought for sure it was going to be eight, at least.

Get to club and already I’m feeling pressure. Dave informs me this morning he has to run over to Jake’s school and watch him receive his diploma. Tells me he can play a couple of holes of the first match then I’m on my own. Oh, and don’t let him down. Gently remind him he said we can’t win so what does it matter? I’m immediately greeted with a vacuous stare. It is painful watching his face contort as he searches for some oblique argument to counter his original statement while justifying his latest observation. I save him rupturing a blood vessel and tell him I’ll do my best. Bump into our good buddy Gaetan, founder of The Brotherhood of the Cup, (no, he’s not a pasty chef) and find out his longtime partner and our friend Luke will not be playing this year. This is due to totally unacceptable decision to have a romantic get-a-way weekend with his wife. Immediately initiate ball busting call to torture our buddy for having such misguided priorities. Mission accomplished. We head to tee.

We’re playing Fred Wagner and his guest Scott Hallam. Scott is from Woodmont CC, an upscale facility, and is clearly stunned at the events unfolding around him. I consider telling him to look up Rick Karp and see if he has any pills left from last year when he brought “the doc” as his guest. After imbibing one of his wonder drugs, Rick was left pain-free, also speech-free and near the end of our match, breath-free. Miss the Doc.

Tee off and after three holes we’re 3 up, no thanks to me. Dave’s playing well and I figure we need one more before he takes off. Push the fourth hole and he leaves me with the inspirational admonition “don’t f up.” His seat isn’t even cold yet and I immediately drop the next two holes. Then it dawns on me…I have no chance. Nobody is yelling obscenities and telling me how good they’re playing or how much I suck. Desperate, I flag down a maintenance guy and give him $5 to scream something during my backswing. Though confused, he does and I check the slide, we win 1-up.

Match 2 – Par – Not much to say when you play against Par…they’re tough to beat, don’t drink and you can’t get in their head. On the up side, figure Dave won’t make it back and I’ll enjoy the solitude. Unfortunately, he blows in like a hurricane for the first hole screaming, “How did we do?” Tell him 1-up and get a ration of shit because I didn’t do better. Gently remind him he said we can’t win again and get rewarded with another confused look.

Match 3 – Grab quick lunch and head to 12 where at first it appears we’re playing Bob Cousey and “The Rock.” Get closer and it’s Henry Meadows and his guest Darren Braude. Good guys, not shocking. I remember Henry from past events, a true gentleman; polite, gracious, well-mannered, an all-around “good guy”…I immediately question what the hell is he doing at Norbeck? He gets out sporting his trademark high-whites and I’m anticipating a quick game of H-O-R-S-E before we tee it up. I consider making funny comment and think better after shaking hands with Darren who looks like he could hold his own with the Hulk in a Steel Cage Death Match. Also notice he’s bringing more shots than me, a disturbing thought. How much more is Ryan going to bore into me if I don’t step up? Hey, why am I worrying, we can’t win again so who cares?

Start off well, go 3-up early and begin to hold intelligent conversation with Dave. This should have been a flag right there. Get to fourth hole and all of a sudden Henry catches fire and ours goes out. I have Dave camped on my ass informing me for the 100^th time that Darren is my mark while I’m just trying to figure out how to not fall over when addressing the ball. Mention to my partner, just for informational purposes, that his “mark” is beating him like a drum. Suitably challenged, he apparently decides a good strategy would be to stop hitting anything resembling a golf shot and immediately blades a couple. Meanwhile, Henry drops a 30 footer to win one hole then chips in to win another and by the end of the match we limp in, down 1. Dave is not taking this well and tells me I didn’t keep pace with Darren, which I didn’t, probably because he has two working feet. To which I reply it was entertaining watching him morph from hitting “Ruthian” drives like George Herman to sculling wedges like “Pee Wee” Herman. As we drive to hand in our card I sense trouble and consider asking for “5” to refocus. Not necessary, 30 seconds into the ride he says, “Let’s get some beers” and Team Ryan is back on track.

Day ends with steak dinner, more alcohol and general ball busting. Dave introduces me to Chris Burns who isn’t playing because he’s leaving for Paris the next day. Impressed, I comment how that should be fun and am informed it’s not. Apparently he travels there a lot, what a drag…eating croissants and drinking coffee at a café on Rue du something sounds fun to me. Chris tells me he enjoys the recaps, which is worrisome and informs me he sends them to some of his employees. I guess that’s marginally better than having them look at porn on the Internet.

Next up is the always entertaining Long Drive challenge. Played in this once, after Dave consumed about 20 beers and a handle of vodka, then got up and casually ripped one about 280. By the time I figured out what was going on it was way too late. Literally surrounded by 150 slobbering, screaming and totally inebriated cavemen, I make my way to what I know will be complete emasculation. In my recurring flashbacks I hear words of encouragement like “don’t be a pussy,” “you suck” and that was just Dave. I vividly recall Tarbs, glassy-eyed and red faced, telling my partner he doesn’t have a chance. To which my partner, red faced and glassy-eyed responds, “I know.” Fired up by the lack of confidence I slap one about 185, shoot Dave a look of disdain, bend down, pick up my penis and head for the privacy of the locker room to have it reattached.

Saturday, Day 3:

Match 4 – Up early, back to sponge bathing till Davy replaces nozzle. Stretch for five minutes and attempt to read paper upstairs where he’s doing email. Forced back to basement due to whining and injured animal noises coming from Dave as he tells me every 30 seconds how tough his job is. I think back a month to the emails he sent out coordinating Boys Night Out. The engineers who landed a probe on a comet a billion miles away and traveling thousands of miles per minute weren’t as detailed and he can’t handle a work meeting?

Get to club without incident, drop a generous dozen doughnut holes to cover the 8 bag and cart guys and go in for breakfast. Hook up with usual crew for pre-game ball busting, vodka loading, videos of up-coming opponents and game-day strategy session. The latter, the usual. Dave will hit it far, I will hit it often and somehow we’ll make the Shoot Out, which we can’t win because we won last year.

Arrive at tee and meet Jay Watts and Rick Leftwich, couple of good guys who got Piñata’d by the team we beat 1-up yesterday. It’s always good to start with a false sense of security. Quickly go 3-up again and I begin worrying we might actually get into the damn shoot out after all. Reach the 4^th hole and my fear abates when Rick the 32 goes par, par, birdie on his ball…without strokes. Rick has a great swing for a thin guy 8 feet tall; I’m 5’11 and a buff 225. If you put him and I together we’d still equal two skinny people. As luck would have it, while he’s beating us single-handedly, I’m playing my best and losing by a stroke. A fact not lost on my partner. A quick jam session ensues employing a red-dot exercise that Dave uses to demonstrate it’s my fault we’re now all square. After assimilating all relative data, we quickly parlay “all square” to “all over” as we lose by 2. Intense shit-storm follows as Dave implores me to “up” my game. I mention my newly reconstructed ankle and the fact the screws aren’t even fully set and reiterate his comment regarding we can’t win again so what does it matter? His swing is wide right and I don’t wish to repeat his reply.

Match 5 – Check board and we’re in serious jeopardy, not that it should matter. Dave says we need to play better, actually he doesn’t say “we.” While not questioning my manhood directly, he makes reference to my proclivity of hitting short drives. I thank him and mention it was refreshing to watch an 8 blade a chip…twice on one hole…while putting like Jack Hammer. Harmony and goodwill overflow…

Get to play two guys I really like, the brothers Mountcastle, Ken and Don. Solid competitors, Dave says we should have a fun match then follows with we need to go Byzantine and crush the life out of them early. Looking forward to the jocularity sure to ensue. Arrive at tee late since Dave was back at the scoreboard running quick calculations determining our chances based on multiple scoring scenarios. Didn’t realize they put Cray mainframes in Sprint cell-phones…technology is beautiful. By now I’m exhausted from lack of sleep, elevated blood alcohol levels and sunstroke and Dave tells me I need to carry my weight…that’s a whole other problem. I tell him it’s up to him and get the expected reply “so what else is new?”…I tell him my ankle, then duck.

First hole is 11, we win when Dave gets on in two with a great drive and greater 2-wood, but I’m sure you heard him screaming. In fact, anyone living, working or visiting within 10 miles of the club heard him. Push 12 and win 13 where I think I did something good but because Dave drove it around the corner to 80 yards what I did didn’t matter because “daddy hit it far.” Somewhere during the match the brothers say we have a chance to win the shoot-out. I guess they didn’t get the memo, we can’t this year.

We finish plus 5 and Dave says we played well…actually, he doesn’t say “we”.

Shoot-Out – Worst fears are realized, I’m alive, playing in Dave’s Member-Guest and we’re going to the Shoot-Out. I really don’t like the pure alternate shot format. Unless you have ever played in something like this it’s hard to convey just how stressful it is. I think I’ve been in four or five and they don’t get any easier…usually because Dave leaves me in such interesting positions. That, or he’s killing the ball and I’m just trying not to embarrass myself. Nonetheless, we’re here…Dave says we can’t win again so I guess we’re just going to have some sphincter-tightening fun.

Hole 14 – We reload with beer and head to 14 and join the other runners-up. See Clark’s assistant Pete, great guy with nice hair and it appears he is trying to get things organized. He’d have better luck trying to herd cats. Finally order is restored and I’m first to hit…the fun starts here. This is a downhill par 4 with a huge bunker protecting a green which slopes back to front. I figure this time I’m going to return the favor and give serious consideration to my partner’s strengths and place my shot to advantage us. Having done the quick calculation, I pull my drive dead left, about 120 yards, leaving Davy a downhill lie, 195 out…perfect. My planning pays dividends when Dave punches a shot into, then out of, the sand leaving a hole-high chip to the flag. When I attempt to enlighten Dave about my strategy, he initiates verbal hurricane telling anyone in range how well he executed as I gaze in rapturous awe of his ignorance, I begin to agree…execution is a good idea. Play resumes after what seems an eternity of hacking, including my underwhelming chip. Dave’s putt stays short but I tap-in for 5-net 4 and we go to 13.

Hole 13 – Good hole for Dave to showcase his long-drive talent, like it’s a big deal. He does, only this time leaving me on a root, under a tree, 100 out, to an elevated green with a bunker seriously in play. I’m last to hit since “Daddy” is glory seeking and just has to get those last few pounds of ass into the shot to out drive everybody. Having “hit it far” he leaves me and goes up to the green to witness my approach. He is blissfully unaware, as are most others, that my ball is on a root. If I hit it thin, which is likely, it won’t clear the bunker and we’re dead. If I don’t hit it at all, because that’s exactly what I’m afraid of, it’ll be my fault we lose the hole and the shoot-out…which. of course, we can’t win because we won last year. Dave, waiting to entertain the horde at my expense if things go bad, or take credit if I miraculously scrape something close, is becoming impatient…Dave, impatient? Sweating profusely and limping due to being on my ankle for so long and having him on my back, I take a 9, set, and swing…hard, because I fear not getting it to the hole will elicit a tsunami of loud, embarrassing comments…and manage to clear the hazard leaving Dave a 15 foot chip. No cheers, no “good shot from there,” I limp up to the green and my partner says “you hit it fat.” Since firearms are not allowed on premise I consider my chances with a putter…what a dick.

OK, my 8 has a 15 foot chip and I’m envisioning something inside the leather, no more than a couple of feet at worse. One thinned wedge later I’m contemplating a downhill, down-grain exceedingly fast 12-foot shot. Not in the heavy rough, not where I hoped to be either. I’m 6 feet off the green in the executive cut so at least I can putt. I look at Dave and he gives me the “perfect, you got this” reply and proceeds to tell people in the gallery, “If you can’t make these you shouldn’t be out here.” Rather than kill him with witnesses I elect to wait. He gives me a read…fast, 3-cups out. A guy a foot over and just back goes first and the ball does nothing, just runs 15 feet by the cup. I tell Dave I’m hitting it straight and he gives me the raised eyebrow look. I address the ball and let it go…praying it stays on the green. It does, dead center, in. Dave comes over, pats me on the back and says “how ‘bout that read.” All of a sudden, witnesses don’t matter. We head to 16. We make the first batch of eliminations.

Hole 16 – Hate this hole, I think because in ’07 during the Shoot Out I chunked one just over the pond and we were eliminated. Dave took that well…this year I actually par’d it when Dave was at Jake’s graduation. Today it’s playing about 185 and Dave probably has a 7 or 6. I don’t care; I’m too busy trying to keep my lunch down. There are hordes of carts filled with inebriated men who spent their grocery money on parimutuel bets waiting to see if they can ever go home. I just want him to leave me something easy…he swings, it’s high, drifting right…I’m praying it goes wide enough to avoid the bunker, but no, just in under the lip but playable, at least he tells me it’s playable. In fact he tells me it’s perfect. Our buddy Benji, (Herb Albert) who made it to the final pairing with his guest Gregg Z last year, dumped his shot in the pond and went long on his next attempt. Our other buddy Gaetan, his partner was short and it looks like they’re out, but there are still two balls on the green. Dave tells me take a 9 and hit it close. I’d like to take my 9 and hit him upside his melon for leaving me with this POS. After everyone is on, Clark says to go…if only. I have a gap-wedge and fully expect Dave to be hitting out of the trees our next shot. I focus, as best I can with one ankle supporting my weight and shaking like the guy from Deadliest Catch who fell overboard into the Bering Sea. Then it dawns on me, we can’t win this year anyway, just swing. I do and it stops a foot from the cup. Dave taps in and we go to Chip Off.

Chip Off – Hole 16 – Got stuck doing this last year when my partner forgot to bring his wedge down and managed a decent shot. I tell Dave I don’t want to do it this year and get the argument “hey, you just chipped out of the bunker…this is easier”…yeah? Well why aren’t you jumping in? Argument goes nowhere; Clark picks a spot 20 yards from flag in high rough and says you can set the ball up. I do. I shouldn’t have. Swing 56deg and almost miss, the club just catching the ball which goes about four feet onto the green and stops. The magic is gone and I look over to Dave for that consoling, buddy-you-did-fine man-hug. I’m still waiting…

We figure we’re out and just as I am beginning to relax the next guy does what I did and doesn’t get inside me . . . worse, the last guy double hits and is automatically out. We’re in the final pairing . . .

Hole 17 – Final Pairing Shoot Out – Dave and I are both stunned. Never thought we would be in this situation again. The two we’re playing I don’t know, but are typical of what I have come to expect at Norbeck, great guys. We shake hands and it’s my turn to hit. I unsheathe my favorite club, driver. Love driver, allows me to showcase my manly length in front of 100+ rabid golfers who have been drinking since about 6:30 this morning…can’t wait. As expected, I hit it about 190, but straight. They hit further. Go to my ball and Dave’s up. I ask him how he’s going to swing with that albatross wrapped around his neck. He looks over and says he’s going with 2-wood. Well, that’s a better call than 5-iron which he used to not only torpedo me with, but one year when he brought Z as a partner torpedoed him as well…an attractive blade resulting in the ball 20 yards in the woods, and us out of contention. Last year he selected the 2-wood, which he had been smoldering all week. It worked better than the 5-iron since it didn’t make the woods, didn’t make the fairway either. What it did was flutter about a buck-twenty. So I am expecting nothing and what happens? “Daddy hits it far” shows up and he torches it about 225. I look over and the albatross is off his neck and now casually draped around his ankles. It will require more than one shot to exorcise all the demons.

Not sure, but it may have been that shot that understandably rattled the other team…hard to watch when your opponent has just pureed one that well…it was hard for me to watch and I’m his partner. In any event, their second shot goes OB and I think Dave and I both feel the same. These guys played tough to get here and you hate to see that happen. They hit down and I hit up, short of the green leaving Dave with a chip similar to last year and fully expecting him to leave me something in the 25-30 foot range knowing I demonstrated success from that distance last year. Apparently that would be asking too much. Acting to satisfy his insatiable ego, his hero fixation, his blatant singularly focused desire to be recognized for doing something, anything, on as grand a stage as the Norbeck Member-Guest, he decides he’s going to “go for it.”

As I have counseled him over the years, stay within yourself, don’t force the heroics…some possess the pulchritude and grit that allow us to rise Phoenix-like at the most demanding of times and sink 30 foot putts with championships on the line…Others blade 5-irons and leave their partners in untenable situations. That said, his pitch on hits the flag and the ball stops a gut wrenching foot away…come on, if you aren’t going to chip it in from there don’t even come out here. Our opponents get on but have a long put for a 6, leaving no choice but to give it a strong run, comes close but goes past. Now I once again stand over a putt for the win…a down hill 12-inch tester. I take a deep breath, gird my attractive loins, take the putter back and with one shaky stroke demonstrate Dave is not capable of following his own directions. We are repeat Norbeck Member-Guest Champions!

Once again, Norbeck demonstrates the class I have come to expect. The two guys we just played could not have been more gracious. Everyone plays hard to win, but the way all have responded to the good fortune that has graced Dave and I have been incredible. I am very proud to have the honor of being a small part of Norbeck’s history.

2009 Norbeck CC Member-Guest Recap

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 17^th 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 2^nd 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.

Merry Christmas 2008

Merry Christmas men, another year above ground!

As I reflected back on 2008, it struck me. I had accomplished something really, really good…a golfing “three-peat.” A much sought after goal, one not easily attained and something I now feel the need to share. While known for being a true team player not interested in self-aggrandizement, I readily acknowledge this feat would not have been possible without the minor contributions of a small group of mildly talented friends. The following briefly describes the three memorable events for posterity:

First, a hard fought, 1st place Flight Finish in the Norbeck CC Member-Guest. A great event held at an exclusive Maryland venue, renown for having the most alcoholics per hole in a PGA-sanctioned event. Although the competition was stiff and I was struggling with heat-induced dehydration, Parkinson’s disease and recurrent shoulder problems, none of that was insurmountable. No, I can man-up when called upon. The real challenge was attempting to limit my partner Dave’s daily alcohol intake to within a gallon or two of what is required to fill a small Olympic-sized swimming pool. Not an unfamiliar task for anyone who’s played with Dave. It’s odd actually; the first four or five vodka drinks, consumed de rigueur with early AM scrambled eggs, seem to have a somewhat calming effect. Early tee shots are bombed, irons are pin-seeking daggers and putting is ridiculously good. His demeanor, the usual..self centered and loud; but directed in a 360 degree radius so as not to advantage our team, just universally annoy the entire field. It’s the ensuing 15-16 beers, aided along with five or six Dan Smiths just for “color,” that tend to have a more meta-physical effect. We notice a transformation from “fun” Dave to “asshole” Dave. (Note photo below).

Here’s Dave, mid-way through the round, face flushed from consumption, posture starting to give in to the laws of gravity, steadying himself by leaning precariously on his trusted 5-iron…the very club employed in our 2007 Norbeck Member Guest crusade resulting in our losing the overall Championship. Therapy is slow to erase the horrid memory. After perfectly placing my tee ball in the fairway in the dreaded alternate shot format, Dave, unsure of which stick to pull, settles on his “trusty” 5-iron. He sways, just a bit, blinks away the on-coming sweats and swings…I turn, gaze down the fairway where the ball should be flying and notice Dave, drool pooling on his chin, staring dead to his right and into the woods. Thus, once again, our quest for the overall title ends in catastrophe. Hey, this could happen to anyone, even a 9 handicap birdie machine who thinks solely of himself while bitching about how short I am off the tee while riding directly to his ball forcing me to walk back down the fairway 150 yards while he screams to anyone within a mile radius how “Daddy hits it far.”

As fate would have it, this year’s Flight Championship once again came down to the last day and the last hole. I modestly acknowledge our success this year was due in no small part to me keeping my ball in play while fighting off the deleterious effects of potent neurological drugs and what may have been heat exhaustion. Suffering greatly, but playing on through a miasma of pain, I selflessly place my partner in position to once again lock up the match. Note photo below of my knockdown finish, snapped seconds after once again placing our team in contention to win it all. This time though, through the blur of his alcohol induced double vision, Dave follows my detailed read and, miraculously, sinks the putt. As he runs off screaming how good he is, I stumble into the locker and collapse; thankful the tournament is over, my job now done. Flight Champions once again.

Next, the annual Parkinson’s Golf Invitational played this year at The Philadelphia Cricket Club. Paired with the usual reprobates, Dave Ryan, Gregg Zeleniak and Chris Halloran we manage to win not only 1st place Net, but Gross as well. This was made possible by use of a body double that, while looking like Chris, could actually play golf. The resultant Net and Gross is a first ever tandem not soon replicated and far exceeding the lame 1st place scam perpetrated by last year’s winning team headed by Ron Zeitz and Bruce “I had nothing to do with it” Stanley. That year Ron’s other two “guests” or “clients” just coincidentally were former club assistant pros who happen to carry double-digit handicaps…imagine that. Nonetheless, our record 47 “under” clearly demonstrates how a will to win trumps talent any day.

Lastly, and most unfortunately for opponents Bruce Leck and Doug Raynor, was the highly touted 2008 Verizon Business Championship. Contested (?) this year at beautiful Olde York CC nestled in bucolic farmland just outside the quaint town of Columbus, NJ. This venerable tract has hosted many of golf’s classics. However, this year’s battle, pitting me and my partner Rick Bagley against the two aforementioned pant-loads, was special. As defending champions, we were anticipating a hard fought contest from two desperate contenders playing to shed their pathetic past while attempting to gain a modicum of respect. Enduring personal slurs and obscene references to family lineage, we met for the 6^th time to decide which team wanted it more. As perennial champions and possessing a 4W – 1L record going in, we had significant risk. Our opponents, possessing a sterling 1W – 4L record, espoused the class one would expect of individuals of Appalachian descent by incessantly talking trash and exhibiting their usual crass behavior. In the end, which occurred about 45 minutes after start of play, it wasn’t even close. Unable to withstand the blistering Ham & Egg combination thrown at them, they quietly, meekly, withered into shameful oblivion. Closed out; embarrassed and emasculated in a mere 13 holes. That said, they were tough opponents…at least for the three holes they pushed. For that, we salute them.

 

2008 Norbeck CC Member-Guest Recap

Well another June, another Norbeck Member Guest. You have to attend one of these to believe it. Here’s a recap of this year’s circus:

Wednesday, Day One:

Up early and on the road by 6 a.m. Spent the night at Chrissy’s and I’m now following him over to Dave’s shack and the place I’ll be calling home the next five days. We’re getting an early jump so we can “help” Dave put up a basketball goal on the brick façade of his beautiful home. Immediately engage with traffic so intense it takes three days for my sphincter to unwind. White-knuckle 35 miles south and am greeted with sight of Dave, surrounded by his beautiful kids, staring vacuously at a set of directions Frank Lloyd Wright would have trouble deciphering. Commence spending the next three hours trying to keep him busy and out of the way so Chris and I might actually get something done. Dave neglects to measure before purchasing aforementioned hoop so the backboard is about 3” too tall and rubs against the gutter running across his garage. No problem. For Dave…“Just get a hammer and pound down the gutter. If that doesn’t work, we’ll take the whole thing off.” This astute assessment from “Daddy Hits it Far,” who doesn’t know which is the business end of a screwdriver. Thankfully, get call from Z saying we have to leave to make our tee-time at International or we’ll blow his schedule. For now, Dave’s house and gutter remain intact.

Z’s plan for today is gratuitous ball busting followed by golf with more ball busting followed by dinner at his place and yes, post-repast ball busting. Those familiar with Gregg’s somewhat effeminate mannerisms, his obsessive fastidiousness and maniacal attention to detail, will understand our need to be on time. So we pack up the 600 odd pieces that comprise the mounting bracket, stuff them back in the box and bolt over to his course. Forty minutes later we find Z in the locker room re-pressing his ensemble and arguing with some guy about what Whoopi said on yesterday’s episode of The View. No surprise there.

Finish round without injuring anyone and head over to dinner. As expected everything is perfect, the house, the yard, the dog and Susan won’t be home for a couple of hours so Gregg can pretend he’s in charge. Enjoy great steak dinner and leave five minutes before Susan arrives so everything works out fine. Day one is almost over and we’re off to a reasonably good start.

Thursday, Day Two:

Dawn breaks early in my basement suite in the Ryan Castle. I awake to the smell of coffee brewing and a toasted bagel, which I’m told I can purchase for $5.75 plus gratuity. As I stumble to the bathroom I stop and reflect on last year’s debacle, contemplating what could have possibly clouded my otherwise clear thinking and allowed me to be back in this position. I know from past experience, nothing good can come from this. I pop my morning complement of neurological drugs and wash them down with the first Dan Smith of the day, obligatory if I wish to engage in conversation with any of the crew assembled at the club breakfast. Of course the term “breakfast” normally conjures images of bacon and eggs. At the Norbeck Member–Guest it usually takes on a more liquid form of highly flammable jet fuel mixed with a splash of either grapefruit or orange juice for those trying to be “healthy.” Nonetheless, today is the practice round, my most enjoyable day of the entire trip.

We meet up with our group, which consists of me, Dave, Dave’s brother-in-law Danny and his “partner for a day” and last evening’s host, Gregg Z. Interesting guy my buddy Z. Smart, attractive enough, well off financially, somewhat effeminate in his walk and possesses a strange penchant for ironing. He’s graciously filling in for Dan’s longtime partner Mickey who is oddly enough absent for the event although rumor has it he’s wrapping up a successful detox and will be cruising in tomorrow.

I sneak down some breakfast so Dave doesn’t call me a pussy for eating and hit about six balls before my partner starts in with why I need to get stretched. It’s actually the first of the two good ideas he has all trip and the guy doing the manipulating has great hands. I forget about my prior infatuation with Bjorn, who isn’t playing this year, and make a date for tomorrow with the same therapist. Bump into the usual crew of members and am reminded of the Star Wars bar scene. Am honored by requests to be included in this year’s summary but make no promises and try to go back to the range, now closed, and get called a pussy for the first time by Dave. I should have bagged this event when I had the chance.

Finish round without injury and actually end up taking third place. Things are looking up, but I know first-hand how it can all go terribly wrong in an instant. Head back to Dave’s, watch five minutes of U.S. Open and fall asleep on couch. Wake up at 3 a.m. needing to piss like a stallion and discover roughly 10,000 ants congregating in my sink holding a rally. Too tired to do anything, so hit the rack.

Friday, Day Three:

Up at 5 a.m., stumble upstairs to kitchen and find Dave reviewing today’s pairings. Before making coffee, we map out a winning strategy. Dave will hit it far, make pars and I will try and keep up. Plan works. Play three rounds and manage to win all by modest margins and lead our flight at end of first day’s competition. Enjoyed talking with the opposing teams and find we all had one thing in common, maybe two: Alcohol poisoning and nobody likes Dave. Hard to understand as he possesses wonderful qualities like being excessively loud, obnoxious and screams non-stop, “Daddy’s rolling the rock” or my personal favorite, “Daddy hits it far”…and those make up his better traits.

By the end of the first hole of the first match, Dave’s already inhaled four beers and the mammoth Dan Smith “roadie” we had on the way over. His mouth never stops running and he’s the loudest golfer out of the 60 or so two-man teams playing. After every tee shot I have to endure the obligatory, “dude, I crushed that” followed by, “dude, that’s long.” Meanwhile, I keep my ball in play and attempt to hold erudite conversations with the opposing team so I don’t have to listen as Dave relives his every shot. After a pretty good shot of my own, I ask Dave if he saw my hit and receive the gracious compliment, “yeah, whatever.”

Finish day with skills contest and multiple vodka drinks then head back for a home-cooked meal prepared by my partner, since Alice and the kids are out for the night. Before we eat, Dave tells me he moved my toothbrush and razor over a little bit and sprayed the ants reconvening in my sink with half a can of Raid. He’s always thinking of others.

Turns out dinner is an already opened can of still frozen crabmeat, baked potato and more vodka. Meal preparation consists of Dave dumping frozen crab in a pan, turning on stove and waiting for ice to melt. By now I’m so tired I would eat thawed dog shit, so I wolf down a heaping portion and wash it down with a beer and more drugs. Pass out on couch, wake up around 1 a.m. with stomach cramps and Montezuma’s Revenge. Spend remainder of night ensconced in bathroom inhaling fumes permeating from sink where Dave emptied the can of Raid and watching the surviving ants plan their next move.

Saturday, Day Four:

Up at 5 a.m. feeling like I was run over by a truck, stumble upstairs and find my partner concocting our first alcoholic drinks of the day. Get showered, dressed and tell Dave we have to stop on the way to the club to pick up a box of Imodium and XL Depends. Reach Norbeck without incident, barely. Spend next half hour admiring the porcelain in the men’s locker-room stall; emerge to find Dave telling everyone I’m a pussy. What a guy.

First match I realize I’m in jeopardy but hang-in and actually help take a hole. Dave plays great and we manage another win. I tell him I’m not well and he proceeds to tell me how far he hit it on our last hole and what a great approach shot he had. I try drinking heavily hoping I’ll die. Second match we are in deep shit. I’m enduring Mr. Sensitive scream as he’s pounding drives OB, “dude, that was crushed!” and “dude, daddy hits it far” followed by “are you going to start playing any time soon?” I reiterate I think I’m dying and he proceeds to describe his last three shots that put us 1-up. By the end of the match, I am seriously sick from bad crab, heat stroke and DDT poisoning resulting from Dave’s carpet-bombing my sink and personal items with Raid. It doesn’t help that I am subjected to shit-face’s incessant, repetitive and loud narrative of his outstanding play.

Last hole, I chop it up and contribute zero. Their “A” player drains a putt from off the green for a birdie, putting them in position to tie us for the match and drop us out of first place. Dave needs to make a routine 10 footer to halve and give us a chance to win it all. I’m very conflicted. Do I root for him to make it knowing I will have to hear about it for the rest of my miserable life? Do I want him to miss just to shut him up? Unlikely anything would do that. Solomon didn’t have as hard a decision.

Incredibly, Dave goes quiet. He chugs his 14^th or 15^th beer this nine, steadies himself and looks over at me. Although unable to breathe properly and seeing double, I give him the read. He settles, drool beginning to ooze from his slack-jaw, and strokes the ball. Miraculously it never deviates from the mark I provided and drops dead in the heart, center-cut. We win the match 1-up. Drained, I tell Dave I have to stop playing because I think I’m going to pass out. Finally, I sense his concern. I can tell he’s worried about me because he leaves me the cart. He obviously doesn’t need it as he begins running towards the pro-shop screaming to anyone within a mile or so, “dude, Daddy is rolling the rock” and “dude, did you see that putt?”

In the end, I withdraw from the shoot-out. Feeling weak and dizzy, close to passing out, I’m diagnosed by Dr. Dave as suffering the effects of being a “pussy.” I love this guy!

Prologue

See last year’s odyssey here.

2007 Norbeck CC Member-Guest Recap

Here’s some context.

Wednesday, Day One – Pack enough for two months with extra underwear just in case. Drive 3.5 hours in horrible traffic, meet Dave…thank God the rest of his beautiful family is there.

Thursday, Day Two – Up at 4:30 a.m., listen to Dave do white board strategy of each individual hole at Norbeck including a slide show presentation with associated handouts and collateral depicting possible shot scenarios. Grab coffee, race to course. Meet sick group of alcoholics who immediately wish me luck for being paired with Dave…find out quickly I am being shoved into a lion’s den of vodka-fueled debauchery. Highlight of breakfast? I am greeted by the sight of John Bjorn’s hairless Johnson and his two large nuts. Fall deeply in love. Go out and play practice round and finish in the money. This due to well-prepared on-course ball management, multiple doses of neurological drugs mixed with several Bloody Marys and Dave’s incessant, and usually incoherent, yelling of “roll the rock” every two minutes. I’m paired with Z and Tarbs so the day goes quickly, as do two cases of beer and a liter of vodka, which I am informed was breakfast.

Après the round, I learn to appreciate something called a “Dan Smith,” creatively named after Dave’s brother-in-law…Dan Smith. The complex recipe calls for a base layer of vodka, measured by up-ending the handle and then reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, followed by two additional shots of vodka for every 6 oz. serving to allow for quick readers and finally, to avoid combustion, the addition of a trace element of fruit. During Member Guest this is generally prepared either by the guy from the janitorial staff working the night shift or one of the cart guys who was instructed on the complex formula and promised extra doughnuts if he came in pre-6 a.m. to mix the initial 10 gallons consumed before breakfast.

Friday, Day Three – (Sophia’s 6^th Birthday) Up at 4:30 a.m. for an 8 a.m. tee time. Slam coffee and go over pre-game handouts with bios of all opponents including financial status, sexual predilection and latest Rorschach test results. Back a little sore and I’m developing an unhealthy appetite for early a.m. alcoholic beverages. Get to course; take pre-game dump, then go hit balls for five minutes in preparation for the first match. Unfortunately, the practice of actually “practicing” before teeing off is frowned upon by the “gang”…a loosely defined group of affable alcoholics whose combined net worth is greater than most third-world countries.

Despite all my efforts to “blend in,” I am spotted and immediately called a pussy…this by my glassy eyed partner who has already consumed six beers and a Dan Smith. Of course, it is almost 7 a.m. and he is probably behind the rest of the crew now assembling. As he hands me a gin and tonic someone left on the seat of our cart and right before I can get out a tepid “thank you,” he starts yelling in his decidedly outside voice, “It’s OK, it’s what pussies drink”…and we’re off.

Nonetheless, I play well enough to win two out of three matches, the third a tie we should have won if I could have capped Davy at 17 beers by the turn (not counting the two Dan Smiths slammed during lunch). I limit my daily consumption to a couple of beers and two vodka drinks chased by my normal complement of drugs. This results in the expected shout-out “what a pussy” to the 100+ hanging out after finishing their matches. Start to respond and quickly realize crowd resembles the mob of zombies from Michael Jackson’s music video “Thriller.” Retreat to locker room and ask attendant to hide me, somewhere. The guy is apparently a friend of Dave’s and I’m relegated to slinking back to the next painful agenda item: “The Skills Contest”.

Dave tells me I have to hit in the long drive competition after he stripes one 275. I have my shoes off and am drinking heavily to escape the scene unfolding all around me: Grown men screaming obscenities at any poor bastard foolish enough to get up and hit. I approach the mass of humanity determined to make Davy proud. My “best of three drives” goes a whopping 185, we lose, get called a pussy by Dave and I begin to notice an unfortunate trend developing.

Half a dozen beers later, we leave, get to Dave’s and as we stumble in I sense trouble. Enter house where his sweet daughter Sofia is celebrating her 6^th birthday waiting for Daddy to get home. Since I don’t know where I’m sleeping, I watch along with the family as he passes out singing what he later claims was a Celtic version of “Happy Birthday.” At the time it sounds like two Cape buffalo with gas pain. Nonetheless, Sophia, who had the misfortune of being born during Member Guest week, happily tucks Dave in and day three is in the books.

Saturday, Day Four – Up at 4:30 a.m. Dread leaving house. Fake heart attack, get called a pussy, by Dave, start to rebut then remember who I’m talking to. I hand him a warm beer left over from last night and we’re officially underway. Play two matches well enough to win flight and feel like I really am having a heart attack because I know what’s coming: Play-offs. Dave, in his best Knute Rockne, tells me, “Don’t worry; it doesn’t matter,” as he starts drinking diet soda and meditating. I have been here before and witnessed Dave’s gentle demeanor evaporate after I hit a poor shot. His encouraging remark is something like, “nice shot asshole, I meant the other left,” which he yells out to the swelling gallery.

Flashback to 2001: Left with an impossible shot under a low hanging tree on hard-pan by my partner, I scrape out a miracle 6-iron to the far fringe of the green, Davy slops one down to 12 feet and I just miss the sliding bender on a green running about an 11 on the Stemp meter. Dave calls me a pussy and I go into therapy for the following six years.

2007 brings another chance for the pain to subside; we make it back to the finals, due in no small part to my steady, if unremarkable play. I leave it all on the field of honor, subjugating my personal well being for that of Team Ryan. Hitting drives consistently 190 or less so I might be in position to unleash the feared utility weapon on our unsuspecting foe. This while letting Dave get the adoration from mammoth tee shots placing him 150 yards ahead of me, then, as he drives directly to his ball telling me and anyone within a mile or so of his loud mouth, “Daddy hits it far.” Better yet, while walking back to my tee shot, I, and anyone within three fairways, hears him yelling what a pussy I am for hitting it so short. I begin thinking of ways to kill him.

Back to present. We are on hole two of finals, alternate shot play, I tee off my expected 190 to the second cut leaving my partner in excellent position to do what he does best…you know, “the big boys hitting the big shots.” I now am thinking we can do this, I am unusually focused, my incessant shaking has even subsided and I feel an icy calm overtake me. We ARE going to win this; Davy is going to sauté a 5-iron placing me in range of my utility weapon. I sit watching, as I have watched him countless times stripe a mid-iron just where he wants it. He swings and I watch. I then ask him why he hit it into the woods? That’s not where we diagrammed it this morning during our pre-game “red dot” exercise. I console him, quietly telling him it’s OK to lose…again…but after I shake my way around 45 competitive holes I feel it’s my responsibility to make this right. So I hack it out of deep rough to the center of the fairway. Davy hits it to about 15 feet, center cut. The guy we’re playing, who’s an 18, proceeds to hit a 240-yard hybrid to six feet in three. I hit my putt on line but leave it six inches short, we lose, get called a pussy, by Dave.

Can’t wait for next year! Or maybe I’ll save myself the drive and just slam the car door on my nuts. It might be more enjoyable.