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The Australian Golf Club in Sydney, Australia was founded in 1882 and is Australia’s oldest golf club. In the 1970s, the golf course, home to 15 Australian Opens, was redesigned by Jack Nicklaus and Kerry Packer. Packer was Australia’s richest man and a member of the club.
The club’s membership included a group of 24 called the “Lavenders” (named after the Lavender Hill Mob). All were influential men who liked to play for high-stakes (betting everyone else in the group on the front nine, back nine and, then, the total eighteen holes). It was heart-stopping to see them settle after the game -- passing enormous amounts of money across the table.
George Butterworth, king of the garment trade in Australia, was one of the 24. On this particular Friday, he had taken delivery of a new state-of-the-art Mercedes Benz which he proudly parked near the member’s door in the carpark.
During the game, Butterworth’s foursome heard sirens in the distance but ignored them -- not bothering to look up to see which way the fire trucks might be headed. At last, one saw smoke mushrooming in the air over the majestic clubhouse, perched on a hill overlooking the golf course. A raging fire was destroying the original clubhouse.
Butterworth hurried off the course and fought his way past the firemen. He emerged from the thick smoke that billowed from the building in time to move his new car to the opposite end of the carpark, out of harm’s way. Then he returned to the 14th to resume the bet and putt out.
* * *
Ross Phillips was a director of the Australian Golf Club and a long-standing member. It was customary on Saturdays, after prize presentations for the day’s events had taken place, to have dinner in the dining room and, then, retire to the snooker room to further enjoy the company of your fellow competitors. It was also a chance to recoup money you may have lost on the golf course. Some such evenings lasted until the early morning hours. The staff (long gone by then) would leave an “honesty box” in which members placed cash or vouchers against their accounts.
Driving under the influence had not been heard of in those days, so Ross would thread his way home as best he could. He had to negotiate a five-way roundabout, taking an exit which was recognizable only by a sedan always parked on the left side of the exit road. Quite often, Ross was so intent on making his way around the intersection that he would come upon the sedan before he realized it and, as a result, he’d sideswipe it as he went by.
He finally figured out that the car belonged to the owner of the terrace house behind it. So Ross bought the property to give himself a clear run home.
* * *
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| Posted by Bunker Bob at | | | |
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“Hello?”
“Hey, Jimmy, it’s Lou. We’ve gotta talk.”
“What’s up?”
“I’ve been playing great, right? Remember the
68 I threw at you last week and how I cleaned house when we played a
match recently? Toss in back-to-back club championships and
you can certify that my game is on cruise control.”
“So what?”
“Last Saturday was the annual Big-Hitters 36 Hole
Megabucks Skins Game. Naturally, I was an odds-on favorite, even
with my newly-acquired 2-handicap, with a plus sign in front of
it. I added an extra twenty grand in my check book -- on
suspicion.”
“That’s why I didn’t play. You’re too tough.”
“Wise move. Heck, I was the leader in the
clubhouse before they swept the dew off the greens. Man, was I
confident. There was a big storm Friday night -- a blitz:
lightning, thunder, miserable weather -- but I slept right through
it. I went off the air after dinner like somebody hit me with a
tranquilizing dart. I could have slept standing up in a hammock.”
“Why do I get the idea your confidence is a thing of the past. What gives?”
“Lemme tell you the whole story. Saturday
morning, I bounced out of the rack at the crack of dawn, rubbed my
eyes, scratched my ass and dropped to the floor to do my exercises.”
“The ones the Navy Seals use.”
“Yep. I sang in the shower, put on my lucky
golf shirt, the one with my intimidating flaming-fist logo and drove to
the club. You shoulda seen me. I pretended I was in a
private jet headed to the US Open. I practiced an acceptance
speech I’d give once I creamed the field by about a dozen shots.”
“Don’t tell me you took the gas pipe.”
“Be patient. I glided along, my feet barely
touching the pavement as I walked to the practice range. Heck, I
went out of my way to doff my cap to Duffy Winslow and Barney McClusky,
two creeps I usually avoid because they don’t know the word
“press.” I arrived at the practice tee and slipped into a new
ebony golf glove -- with my flaming-fist logo across the velcro strip.”
“For crying out loud, gimme the Cliff Notes version.”
“Clam up. You’ve gotta get the full picture of
what happened. I snatched a wedge outta my gunmetal black golf
bag. . .”
“I know, the bag with your flaming-fist logo.”
“That’s it. I flipped a ball from the pyramid,
nudged it to a cushy lie on a tuft of grass, squared my shoulders and
feet and took dead aim at the 130 yard target flag. I waggled
once and picked up right where I left off last Friday -- continuing to
amaze myself with the smoothest swing in the hemisphere -- Golf Digest
would kill for sequence photos.”
“I’m gonna hang up.”
“I love to watch shots arch their way to the green
and plop like a rain drop, six inches from the pin -- time after
time. I pumped my fist and exclaimed to no one in particular:
Holy crap! Today’s the day. Today’s the day I glide to, um,
a slick 67. Yep, that’s it, five-under for the day. This
time it’ll cost the boys about a grand a stroke.”
“Well, did it? Did you win or did you crumble?”
“I worked my way through the bag, club by club --
each shot better, truer than the last. Pretty soon I was smashing
four-irons, drilling laser shots into the distance. About then,
Fletcher Dip, the club pro, wandered by to say hello. He asked,
‘How’s it going?’”
“Don’t tell me. I know what happened. Fletcher told you to turn pro.”
“I said, You’re looking at a combination of Fred
Astaire and Superman. Grace and power. I’m on fire.
We exchanged a few polite words -- all the while I continued to rifle
ball after ball effortlessly toward the horizon, secretly hoping
Fletcher would compliment me, say my shots were astonishing.”
“Did he?”
“No. As he left the range, he said, ‘Break
your wrists a bit sooner. I think it will help your game.’ You
know the rest of the story.”
“You lost your hat, ass and overcoat?”
“Yeah. And I'm gonna kill the bastard.”
Click.
* * * |
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| Posted by Bunker Bob at | | | |
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Members of the golf industry get together
each January at the PGA Golf Merchandise Show. Let’s pause for a
moment, to consider their timing.
A month earlier you hocked your Rolex to buy christmas presents and
decorations -- not to mention turkey dinners to feed people you haven’t
seen in months, and don’t want to see again for decades. When
your credit card statement comes in, it will have more pages than Gone
With the Wind. The mailman will get a hernia lugging it to your
front door. Your credit line is tapped out -- there isn’t enough
left to buy a sleeve of balls. And the dirty rats have gathered
in the Florida sunshine to:
• Make sure every club in your bag is obsolete by introducing newer, better, lighter, more expensive models.
• Unveil new golf balls they guarantee a six-year-old can spin off the toe of a two-iron.
• Introduce a revolutionary nursing/sports bra for low-handicap new mothers.
• Flood the market with “I can’t believe it isn’t graphite” shafts,
which give women golfers the edge they need to out-drive their husbands
and make forward-tee markers obsolete.
• Change the sleeve length on all new golf shirts. By February
1st, if your sleeves don't cover your fingertips, you will look like
Jesper Parnevik.
• Announce an affiliation with Blockbuster. Rent a flick and get a free
copy of “The Secret Gene Sarazan Took to His Grave” which shows, in
detail, the “Shake hands with your lawyer then count your fingers grip.”
With all this in mind, bankruptcy be damned, you know you can’t show up
to play with your regular group without the latest equipment
innovations and apparel styles. Your worst fear is that your
friends will have every item on the list -- and you are dead flat
right! Why? Because they are at home pacing the floor,
chewing Rolaids, thinking the exact, same thing.
* * * |
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| Posted by Bunker Bob at | | | |
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I’m 72 Years Old Or, As I Prefer to Say ... Even Par
I’ve reached the age where:
I have to rappel into pot bunkers.
I ride. If I see a golfer my age romping around on foot, I’ll consider walking.
I park the cart as close to the ball as I can without running over it.
I no longer putt three footers, I rake them.
My golf bag contains several items available only by prescription.
I’m thankful golf is played during the day. I don’t drive at night.
During a lesson, the pro told me to stand up straight. I said, I am.
* * *
Daily aches and pains are part of growing old, but I needn’t be
reminded of my advanced age. It’s not necessary to ask me if I
ever played with Francis Ouimet.
I’m content to go about my business without listening to the clock
tick. Unfortunately, I often play golf with older people who
insist on discussing their medical problems and emergency room
experiences. They tell me about cataracts before I have them,
trifocals before I need them and handicap-parking permits before I want
them. What’s next, comparing bypass scars?
Once in a while I run into a crony at the supermarket or in a
restaurant, and get a blank stare when I say hello. I’ll say, Hi,
I’m Joe Smith, we played golf last Wenesday. Nice to see you
Frank. It usually triggers a smile and a LOUD response, "JOE
SMITH, I remember Joe Smith.” That means the old geezer is
congratulating himself for remembering me.
The other day our waitress brought lunch and said, “Jim?” My friend raised his hand and said, “Over here.”
I told him, “No, she said Jim -- you’re Tim.”
I look at the humorous side of growing old. We kid each other
about things like hip replacement surgery, memory lapses, and so
forth. We rarely keep score because we can’t remember how
many shots we’ve taken at the end of a hole.
“I think I had an 8.”
“Didn’t you hit a ball in the water? You had a 9!”
“Wasn’t that yesterday?”
One time I played with three seniors. While we waited for the
group in front of us to play their second shots I noticed all three of
my companions were wearing medical alert bracelets.
It gets better (or worse): We stopped for a sandwich after golf.
The conversation was mostly small talk until the food arrived.
One of the fossils took a few bites, wiped his chin and said, “I’m
doing something interesting.”
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m taking falling lessons,” he replied.
* * *
An old relic shows up at the golf course accompanied by a cute,
scantily-clad girl caddie. On their way to the pro shop, they run
into the old guy’s doctor. The doctor is stunned to see his
patient with a hot chick so he says, “Wow, that’s some caddie you have.”
The old man says, “Just following your orders, doc. Doing what
you told me to do. You said to get a hot mamma and be cheerful.”.
The doctor says, “That’s not what I told you. I said, You’ve got a heart murmur, be careful.”
* * *
Three old fossils are playing. golf. The first one says, “It’s windy, isn’t it?”
The second one says, “No, it’s not, it’s Thursday.”
The third one says, “Me, too, let’s go get a drink.”
* * *
Two senior golfers finish their round and walk into the pro shop to
post their scores. One says to the other, “I had fifteen riders
today, how many did you have?”
“Twenty two,” the second guy replies.
His pal smiles, “Congratulations, it’s your all-time best.”
The pro overhears the conversation but isn’t sure what they’re talking
about. So he asks, “I heard you talking about riders.
What’s a rider?”
One of the old guys answers, “That’s when you hit a shot far enough to get in the cart and ride to your ball.”
* * *
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| Posted by Bunker Bob at | | | |
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Sometimes I look out the window and
get the feeling I’ve taken up residence in a waste bunker. I live
in the Sonoran Desert. That’s desert, of course, not
dessert. Dessert is Ben & Jerry’s. Desert is sand &
gravel, burrowing animals and cactus, rattlesnakes and. . .drum roll,
please. . .target golf!
Target golf, for the uninformed is different from
what you play in Pittsburgh, Buffalo or Rhode Island. Target golf
is fairways with interruptions. A game of Jarts.
Three-pointers from center court. Hit and hope. Hail Mary!
How hard can it be to advance a ball from one grass
target to another? What’s the big deal? Not much to it, is
there? No, assuming you can hit a line-drive through a keyhole
with a 6-iron from 150 yards. Trust me, target golf will have you
wringing your hands, warping your body into pretzel-shapes and barking
commands like “Hook,” “Slice” and “Bite” on chip shots.
There’s a catch: most targets aren’t all that
big. And they are surrounded by desert. Taylor Made golf
clubs are designed to clip balls off manicured sod. In target
golf you need clubs that grind through gravel. Ping manufactures
their golf clubs in Phoenix, Arizona. Karsten Solheim, the
founder, had a simple business plan: Build ‘Em Where They Wreck
‘Em.
On the bright side, scrape marks chiseled into the
sole of a club come in handy. They indicate whether your swing
path is inside-out or outside-in. It helps to know since a little
grip tinkering or a stance adjustment, may be in order.
A small grass patch near the pro shop is the first
tee. Look for a hunk of sod the size of a door mat. An
appetizer for a rabbit. A 50-foot tree lawn has enough grass to
sod a dozen target golf tees.
The strip of grass yonder, a skimpy landing area
about the width of a gang-mower is the fairway. From the air a
target golf course looks like a message in morse code.
Players enjoy incredible scenery. Many target
golf courses are located in the foothills of strikingly picturesque
mountain ranges (where a level lie is rarer than steak tartare).
The tees and greens are so elevated that you have to take a nap after
you scale them. Even the ball washers are uphill -- the water
leaks out.
A target green is roughly the size of a drink
coaster. And made of plywood, or so it seems when you see a chip
shot bounce shoulder high. We don’t repair Arizona divots, if we
take one we sell it on eBay. Arizona’s annual rainfall isn’t
enough to fill a shot glass, In 2006, Phoenix went 143 days
without rain. You need a jackhammer to plant a tulip.
You are probably used to golf courses with
strategically placed trees and shrubs and creeks to penalize errant
shots. We don’t have those things, they’re not necessary.
The desert is a natural obstacle course of cactus, boulders, gravel and
ruts made by burrowing animals. Did I mention tumbleweed? -- we
have moving obstacles.
My golf bag is part club container and part medicine
chest. I carry bandages and medications in case I have to play a
recovery shot while straddling a prickly pear cactus. Talk about
pain. If a cactus needle splits your inseam you find out how loud
you can scream.
You may wonder why I live in Arizona. Well, we
have 325 days a year of sunshine, a relaxed life style and many wonders
of nature from the desert itself to the Grand Canyon. Of course,
we also entertain ourselves watching tourists who pay $300 to play
target golf.
* * *
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| Posted by Bunker Bob at | | | |
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Have you been paired with a someone
who says, “I play the blues,” and isn’t talking about BB King’s latest
release? This is usually a case where you mumble, “Sure, that’s
fine with me.”
If you have a caddie, he goes, “Aw, shit. Now
I have to walk an extra six hundred yards, rake twenty more traps, and
get the same freakin’ nickel and dime tip. This clown isn’t even
respectable from the forward tees.”
The hike to the first blue tee box is uncharted
territory, but you act nonchalant like you’ve been there
before. You step up to the markers and take a few practice
swings. Meanwhile, the other three players are busy negotiating a
million dollars worth of bets.
You turn, look down the fairway and nibble your
nails, chewing them to the quick when you realize the fairway bunker on
the right - - where the longest drive you ever hit in your life from
the white tees rolled to a stop after it hit the cart path and bounded
forward -- is a drive and a 6-iron from where you’re standing.
Take a tip from me: The next time you hear, “We play
the blues,” look the guy square in the eye and say, “Rain check!” Then
go to a movie.
* * *
Some day, you will be paired with a golfer who casually asks, “Three a side?”
You will think, um, three what? Did he mean
three strokes? Three dollars? Three hundred dollars?
You don’t want to look stupid, so you simply reply, “Sure.”
Sure, my ass! There you are, too intimidated
to ask what he meant. Now you’re on the hook, and so flustered
you can’t remember the swing tip the pro gave you at the three-day golf
school. All you can think about is whether you have a blank check
in your wallet so you can pay up after you lose your hat, ass and
overcoat.
Grab your cell phone and call your banker.
Tell him to lock the vault and set the time clocks so the door won’t
open until you can gather up the wife and kids and move to
Vermont. And have your lawyer get you into a witness protection
program. Disappear.
* * *
Speaking of being paired with strangers, a couple
meet in a singles bar. Over drinks, they get to know one
another. Before long they find themselves in each other’s arms
smooching in a corner booth. It’s love at first sight.
They have dinner several times, go to the theater,
ball games, movies. They are smitten and can’t get enough of each
other.
One night, after a passionate love-making session,
he holds her in his arms and whispers, “I’m nuts about you.
I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
She says, “I love you too. I feel the same way.”
“But, there’s something you need to know,” he
confesses -- hoping to break the news gently. “I’m a compulsive
golfer, I’m obsessed with the game. I play every day.”
“That’s all right, honey,” she whispers breathlessly, “I’m a hooker, and I’m out there every day, too.”
He leaps out of bed, pumps his fist in the air
and exclaims, “No problem, Margaret, we’ll just play dogleg lefts.”
* * *
I say there should be a law against adding up a
player’s score at the end of the seventeenth hole if the person is
playing well. A shot at a new all-time low could be percolating
and, if that’s the case, the offender should be sentenced to play 500
holes with three insurance salesmen. No! that’s not enough --
make it three certified life underwriters -- and make it 1,000 holes if
the creep says, “You only need a par on eighteen for a new low.”
The penalty is warranted. Who can can function
under that kind of pressure? I can’t. I always
crumble. I drag a dead horse across the finish line every
time. Inevitably, I make a double- or triple-bogey and feel like
strangling the guy with the pencil.
If the scorer says, “Par this hole and you’ll
break 40 on this side,” I want to tie my driver in a knot around his
neck. Any jury in the world would acquit me.
Actually, I try not to be violent. I prefer to
step away from the tee, turn to the creep, smile politely and say,
“Thank you for the information.” Then I unzip the pocket of my
golf bag and remove two old golf balls -- provisionals for the one I
know I’m about to hit out-of-bounds and the one that will probably
follow it.
* * *
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| Posted by Bunker Bob at | | | |
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I’m convinced it’s impossible for a recreational golfer to play two
excellent rounds in a row. Catfish Hunter said it best, “The sun
don't shine on the same dog's ass all the time.”
I remember the first time I broke 100. It was
exciting. I told everybody. I even stopped people on the street, Hey, wanna hear about my career day?
When I broke 90 for the first time, I called 911.
The cop at the switchboard wasn’t particularly excited about my
accomplishment. He said never to call again. I asked, Not
even if I bust par?
Setting a new career low automatically triggers a reaction:
• You grab the earliest available starting time for the following day.
• You call into work and tell them you’re sick.
• You phone your friends, neighbors, acquaintances, even strangers.
• You sleep with one eye open -- aimed at the alarm
clock. The buzzer-beater eye. You can
never wake up too soon. After all, you have to
tape your ankles and prepare for an encore.
Forget it. Sleep in. You are destined to
play like your lousy old self, the bonehead you really are. Think
about the number of times it has happened. Ask yourself: was my
second score worse in direct proportion to the number of people I told
about my all-time low?
Of course, it was. You went from a magical 78
to a hideous 102 (the tap-in for 101 circled the cup like it was going
to do a victory lap, but lipped out).
So far, there is no record anywhere of a golfer
agreeing to be a guinea pig by clamming up -- not blabbing about a
career-low -- just to see if the hot streak will continue.
* * *
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| Posted by Bunker Bob at | | | |
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How much more logo
space can touring pros cash in on? Are corporate tattoos
next? I think it’s time for the commissioner to lay down the law:
“OK, from now on, all tour players will wear numbers -- BIG numbers --
just like they do in baseball, football, basketball and hockey.
No more logos, just numbers. If the fans in the gallery want to
know who you are they can check your number on the pairing sheet.
We have galleries filled with people who think Tiger’s last name is
Nike. They root for Ernie adidis.
“Ernie, from now on you’re number 17.
Sergio, you wear 37. Phil, you gamble a lot, so you’re
hyphenated, you’re 8-5. Jesper, zero. John Daly, based on your life, you’re 911.”
The whole logo thing has gotten out of
hand. There are emblems everywhere. Suppose Viagra or
Tampax wants to advertise on apparel? Um, no problem -- crotches
are the only blank spots. Hats, caps, visors, shirts, sweaters,
jackets, pants, skirts, shoes, sox, clubs, balls, bags, and umbrellas
are taken. They even put logos on the bottom of tour golf bags
(apparently, ants, grasshoppers and worms have become a target
demographic for advertisers).
As bad as it is, professional golfers lag far
behind NASCAR drivers in the logo category. Race car drivers cover
themselves from head to toe with trademarks. Have you watched a
winning driver change hats as he poses for a victory photo shoot?
The second he crosses the finish line, he skids to a stop, jumps on the
hood and starts running through a logo hat collection (while his slick
agent acts like Martin Scorsese directing an epic).
Corporations fork over serious money to be title
sponsor or presenting sponsor of golf tournaments. They pay
whatever it takes to get their names connected with an event.
That aggravates newspaper and magazine editors because they hate to
give away free publicity. It’s amusing how many print media
stories limit the sponsor’s identity to one mention in the opening
paragraph. Check it out, you’ll see.
Logos irritate television directors, too.
It pains them to show a cap or visor logo during a player
interview. The camera zooms in underneath the brim to avoid
giving away free publicity. Talk about a close-up -- Jim Furyk
can be discussing Stimpmeter speeds with Peter Kostis, while an ear,
nose and throat doctor, watching 3,000 miles away in his den, diagnoses
a sinus infection.
Speaking of logos, is there a ball manufacturer or a
publicity-hungry company that would be interested in supplying me with
logo golf balls? I’m available. The keys to successful
advertising are reach and frequency. That said, I’m your guy -- I
offer both. I lose balls everywhere -- in the woods, deep grass,
and surrounding property (reach). And I lose six or seven each
time I play -- upwards of a dozen if it’s a course with water
holes (frequency).
Attention, corporate marketing executives:
SPONSOR ME. I’ll give you maximum value for your
investment. And the future is bright. As I get older my
game gets
lousier. That translates into more lost balls -- more reach and
frequency for your buck. Am I a perfect fit for your five-year
marketing plan, or what?
My friend Dave, another inept golfer, is also
looking for a golf ball sponsor. Together, we can put a company
on the map -- he’s wild left, I’m wild right -- really wild
right. One time he found one of my golf balls in the rough at
Orange Tree Golf Resort,. I lost it when I was playing at the
Wigwam Resort, on the other side of town.
Act now, the offer is limited -- in dog years,
our combined age is 952. And, um we’d like to go first class with tour grade balls -- a gross, each, perhaps.
* * *
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| Posted by Bunker Bob at | | | |
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What would a restaurant be without waiters? An
airplane without flight attendants? A museum without docents?
Golf without caddies is essentially the same thing.
If caddies had to hang-out a shingle it would be a
list: Consultant, valet, mathematician, birddog, confidant, porter,
fall guy.
Those seeking job security need not apply. A
40-hour work week is a vacation. Only bird watchers endure more
prolonged standing. Youngsters who take up caddying become
prospects for careers with United Van Lines.
A leather-faced old caddie can tell you which blade
of grass to aim for from 157 yards -- except he can’t see it. He
knows, though, as soon as he hears the click that the club he handed
you got the ball on the green -- pin-high. And you protested it
was two clubs too much, tsk, tsk.
I don’t know who invented the golf cart but it might
be the same guy who came up with the designated hitter in baseball, a
yearlong strike in hockey, the Janet Jackson half-time episode in
football. If carts are such a good idea why don’t polo players
use them? Shouldn’t mountain climbers take a cart? Gretzky
could have fired slap shots from a cart or, maybe, the Zamboni.
One thing about caddying, as opposed to almost any
other job: All you have to do is eavesdrop on a few pro-am
conversations and you’re equipped to write for the National Enquirer,
make money as an inside trader or do standup comedy .
* * *
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| Posted by Bunker Bob at | | | |
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Once in a while somebody invites me to play at their
fancy country club. I’m self conscious, so I make sure my clubs
are clean, my shoes are polished and I wear my best golf attire.
I even get a haircut. All those things come naturally.
The tough decision is whether my ball retriever stays in the
bag. I have the kind with a claw on the end. It sticks out
of my bag like a lawn rake. Observers think I’m there to hoe the
flower beds. It resembles the contraption they sell to pick
grapefruit from high limbs. In a pinch, I can even use it to
change light bulbs in a 12 foot ceiling.
Ball retrievers are construed by many as a sign of ineptness:
“Hey Fred, get a load of the wand in that character’s bag, we’re in for
a long day.” Or, “Who the hell invited him?”
On the other hand, there is an upside to owning a ball
retriever. Like, when your host snap-hooks a shot that ends up in
a creek out of reach. You immediately rush to the scene, extend
the shaft, snare the ball and, bingo, you are an instant hero.
“Here’s your ball, Mr. Oswald.”
“Thanks, thanks a lot, Jimmy, it’s a brand new Titleist.
I’d hate to lose it. You’re a fine young man. We’re keeping
a close eye on you. You have a bright career path ahead of you.”
One time my secretary returned from vacation with a gift -- a
plastic loop that clips on the head of an iron and turns the club into
a ball retriever. It was handy -- a secret weapon. I didn’t
look like a dope carrying it because it was stashed in the zipper
pocket of my bag. But it was only good for short reaches, the
ball had to be within the length of my 2-iron and I’m a
middle-of-the-pond guy. When I drown a ball I drown a ball.
If you are embarassed to carry a ball retriever, here's a bit of
good news, based on personal experience: The older you get, the easier
it is to say, “The hell with what people think, the retriever stays in
the bag.” In time, your game will deteriorate to a point where a
retriever is the difference between a four golf ball day and a seven
golf ball day.
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| Posted by Bunker Bob at | | | |
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