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 4th 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 4th 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.
13th 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.
14th 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.