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 14th or 15th 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!
See last year’s odyssey here.
Ex-Bell Guy 