Most of yesterday was hurried, and that’s not a good word when much of it was spent attempting to execute golf shots, not to be confused with executing golf balls. While I didn’t mean to kill any, I left several abandoned in the woods, their well-being unknown. My rushed day actually began Thursday night, the result of another health-care fiction. Not the Republican “death panel” kind, but more of the “oh my god, I’m gonna die… Nevermind, I’m fine… again.” Anyway, dropping my boy off at oh-seven thirty school put my 9AM presence for a shotgun start in jeopardy. Rather than stress over it for the next 90 minutes, I took the back roads to Windham, NH and fired up the newly downloaded “Black and Blue” ($5 at bigasssouthamericanriver.com).
If you’re just a casual Stones fan, and I am compared to some, (1981’s “Tattoo You” was my last purchase and it was on vinyl) Black and Blue transitioned the band from Mick Taylor to Ronnie Wood guitar playing and toward the brilliant “Some Girls” in 1978. The record sprinkles reggae, jazz, a big dollop of funk provided by Billy Preston, and some white boy soul from Mick on “Fool to Cry.” Winding along the rural route, this fool repeated that one a few times. Sometimes words speak right to you. Not the way the dog did to “Son of Sam” David Berkowitz, but to where you are.
Fresh off some excellent sing along with Mick, I arrived at 8:58, threw on my spikes, didn’t find my glove, and was hustled out to #17 past the cat calls and images of people pointing at watches while shaking their squashes disapprovingly. You don’t be late for “the Funnyman.” “You gotta hit” was the first thing I heard from the trio with their heads hung, reflective of their first hole ineptness. I casually informed them this would be my first swing of 2009 and it would be best if they simply lowered their expectations. I hit a straight line drive about 200 yards into the left fringe, safe. For the next dozen holes I’m sure my teammates essentially flat lined their expectations of the game I brought. By our last 3 or 4 we divoted the dream of Funnyman glory, and were mentally already drinking. Not surprisingly, we all began having more fun and playing better. I hit a second shot 3-wood about 200 yards to within 15’ of the pin. That one shot plus 3 Advil “Farved” me into a return next year.
Discussion of my evening plan prompted a crude, but hilarious bad golf analogy from cart-partner Tony, and then it was off to it. Hours later, as I trailed off a vacation story about accidentally finding the restaurant from the film “Sideways,” I ordered a Pinot Noir from the bartender. “We have blah-blah-blah or Hitching Post.” Uh, yeah. From there the frenetic pace of the day dissolved…
“Daddy you’re a fool to cry
And it makes me wonder why.”