Author's note: As a fledgling writer of fiction, I find it difficult to jump into the deep end of "total imagination." So, while this is a work of fiction—and the characters' names, words, and actions are made up—I did use a real life golf outing for inspiration. People on the outing will probably know the real persons behind the characters. For that reason, and others, I'm cleaving to the Thumper Principle: "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." (Except for Fred, who was a total dirtball. :))
Ted's GPS module attached to his VW Jetta-Diesel windshield easily enough. The almost-sensual woman's voice identified the next fork in the road, as I-75 North merged into I-75/US-23 North. Blaine (the Senator) was amazed at how sophisticated these devices had become.
"Look at this, Tread, she just told me my fly's open."
"She's configured to notice the little things, B. But really, Katy picked this up a few months ago from Costco, cost us a couple hundred, it's fantastic what it can do. Just enter your destination and sit back: you can see where you are on the screen plus Bambi there will keep you posted with audio."
The three of them—Ted, Blaine, and Tyrone (T-Bone)—had just finished breakfast at the Clarkston Diner and were on the road to the Uppa US—specifically, resorts in Gaylord and Oscoda—for the Umpty-Umpth Annual Golf-Package Extravaganza otherwise known as the Grady Open... after Fearless Fosdick, el Supremo Numero Uno, International Man of Intrigue, Show-Me-the-Money Marvin Grady (aka Handsome Marv).
Blaine becomes pensive, then to Ted, "Geez, I sure do miss the Marv. It was a sad day for the Fab Foursome when Whizbangs sent him out to Utah."
"Well, him bein' gone, you and the Boy must appreciate not having that post-round shot-and-a-beer tab every Saturday."
"Really funny, Tread. My exhaustive, detailed records show T-bones and I put the whupass on you two more than not. This urban legend
of your side's invincibility has got to be up on Snopes by now."
The Marvster had developed his invitational bacchanalia into high art. Although the Hazeltucky, Michigan-based Whizbangs 'n' Stuff, Inc., company had shipped the Handsome family out to occupational Podunk (aka Utah), he still organized proudly from afar. He would be driving up separately this year after plane arrival at Detroit Metro.
Joining us at the diner were two other esteemed invitees, Mr. Douglas
McAvoy aka Betty (long story) and Blaine's nephew-in-law Jefferson Ballesteros aka Zinger, for his rookie event. Betty, a three-year veteran to the Grady, is closing in on the big Seven-Zero; the 50- and 60-somethings like to see him for age-relief reasons... "At least I'm not that old." Zing has recently broached the 30-something barrier and shares a common thread with the older majority: i.e. he gets nowhere near the time needed on the golf course to be as good as he should be (within a couple strokes of par).
Blaine is glad for the early calorie fest. The Boy is once again in rare form: peripatetic (moves around a lot) to the point he leaves the table and disappears
into some Clarkston street nook. Maybe a cigarette break. Eventually the T-bone returns with a bag of donuts... then, after all that work, leaves them for the waitress, whom no one is that thrilled with.
The Senator recalls the year that Tread and Banana Boy came up together without the modulating presence of a Blaine or Marvin in Tread's vehicle. Renaissance Man that Ted is, he constructed a cardboard barrier
that obscured one side of the front seat from the other side... complete with a door flap and Post-it notes, in the event T-bone had something to communicate. They got laughing so hard, thrashing about, the barrier fell over by the time they reached Waterford.
This year, sure enough, for the first hour or so, the Boy is movin' and a jukin' like all get out. Blaine knows from experience that not much in the way of deep, deliberate thoughts—the sorts of verbal output Blaine feels uniquely qualified to offer—will make it all the way through the airspace to ears on the other heads. The Boy's receptors are clogged, and Tread Lightly, in the driver's seat, can't hear over the back-seat din:
Blaine (thoughtfully): "According to the Rock Creek Free Press, former Pakistani intelligence leader says the 9/11, uh..."
Tyrone (rapidly): "... Pakistanis?! Bunch o' mean, supercheap notell-motel operators, is all I got to say about that. Me and Joe Bob were headin' back from a Grady, maybe late 80s, we figured to crash near Clare. Found this place on the outskirts, run down, I'll tell you, the rooms were so messed up the dogs wouldn't even piss there, hehehe, the evil-eyed towel-head wanted $50! Creepy. Reminds me of another time I got stuck with trying to count cards at this Indian casino, not Indian Indians mind you, but American Indians. They said I was moving my lips. I always move my lips, well you guys know that, anyway, etc. ..."
It's all right though, the Senator is completely cool these days with airspace disruptions—well, almost completely. The books he's been reading and all the years—he'll be Six-Zero in a month—what with losing some close ones, a brother here and a friend there—seem to be working toward a new understanding. Kind of a Buddhist Ice-Ball Theory: In a few billion years, the Earth and all its golf courses will become a giant Ice Ball. Compared to that implacable fact, the frenetic mental meanderings of the Boy, or even Blaine's own perfectly crafted opinions, really don't matter much.
Of course, golf, well, that's another story!
The important thing, he's come to realize, is to reach peace within yourself and to be nice to people. The guys on the golf league refer to him as the Senator because he used to be active in the Libertarian Party and ran for office a few times. Highest percentage of vote = 2. Cause-oriented to the point of scary. Then, this year—with nobody doing jack about torture and war crimes and 9/11 truth, Obama proposing secret detentions, and the robber baron ripoff of $trillions via Wall Street—the Senator wonders how he can fritter away so many days in a resort at this time of serious national emergency.
"Hey, Blaine, lighten up," says Tread, like a mind reader. We're past the West Branch exit and T-bone has settled down reading a book about serial killers. "You need to let go of all that libertarian stuff, pretend you have the right to have a good time."
"Man, I love these guys and playing golf with 'em, but their idea of a catastrophic social issue is if the Red Wings lose a playoff game. It would be nice if my golf buddies, and people in general, gave a frog's fat ass about the country... about things like friggin' torture, for chrissakes."
"Pal, ain't gonna happen. Plus, they do care; you got to realize most people, not just the guys, live in a 9-to-5 kinda sorta world. They have kids, responsibilities, and they pretty much get their political information and take their civics lessons from Katie, Brian, Charles, and the multiple Shit-for-Brainses on Fox, etc.... the boob tube. Diggin' deep and taking risks isn't high on the priority list for your average family man."
Saturday Treetops, Mastepiece: Golf qua entertainment
"Thanks, dude," responds Senator. "You're right. I'll take a knee on the seriosiity for a few days. Try to enjoy the world of bad golf, elbow tipping, and friendly banter with my native Huckleberries. So what's the course at Treetops today?"
"Masterpiece."
The Saturday weather is perfect, though cool, for the preliminary round. It's actually not part of the Grady Open, but we got rained out last year for a couple of days at Treetops, so Ted stepped up to organize the traditional Grady warm up scramble, using the rain checks. Then everyone is going to unwind here in Gaylord, stay at the Squeaky Clean Shady Rest for like $25 a man.
The 20 men play the Masterpiece from the blue tees, which
lengthens the course about 400-500 yards from the white tees where they've played it before. [In practice, for a normal men's golf league outing, when you move from the white tees to the blue tees, par fours go from 325-350 yards (most of the guys can reach the green in two strokes) to 375-400 yards (most of the guys cannot reach the green in two strokes). Blaine, designated an A-player—just as a rookie movie director who can't get Brad Pitt might wind up with Joe Slabotnik—is grouped with:
Jim Falcone—Formerly employed by Whizbangs, now working with a company over in Sterling Heights that makes land-based whizbangs (in case the US ever has to invade Mexico or Canada). Big man, great guy, good swing, first time out this year.
Jack
Novacek—Formerly employed by Whizbangs, now happily retired and gets high with his old lady all the time... in balloons, traveling across the country. Big man, good swing, great guy, second time out this year.
Lonan Waabizheshi (Geshundheit... or Chief)—Whizbangs' distinguished Chippewa representative who became golf league president following departure of Handsome Marv. Former marathon man: athletic, suave, debonair, "da Ladies' Man." Swing: tends to shoot in higher numbers, but often surprises you.
So Blaine is not ecstatic over prospects. Still the five teams are pretty much all in the same boat, and most likely the team with a true A player will win the furlined jockstrap. The groups two A players—one "A" had to bail today for a funeral (though not his)—are Marshall Lucas (Luke the Younger, LsubY) and Caleb Nystrom (Nice Shot). Cal gets his nickname, Nice Shot, from the verbal response of his fellow competitors following virtually every one of his swings:
"Nice shot, Cal. [then under breath: 'dick']."
Of the two, though, LsubY has the more refined "killer instinct" and the ol' team rah-rah going for him. (Cal, like Blaine, tends to approach golf with a taint of the Ice-Ball sentiment—"I mean, who are we kidding, does it really matter in the grand scheme of the cosmos whether I sink this doggone putt?"—though Cal, unlike Blaine, usually sinks the putt.) Plus, LsubY 'got him some game,' in his youth getting out in Florida a lot, becoming a par kinda guy.
Blaine's nephew in law, Zinger, is teamed up with LsubY. Zing is like the Chief—athletic, suave, debonair, "da Ladies' Man"—only still primetime. Golf swing: adventurous, occasionally prodigious. Zing and LsubY are joined by another young buckaroo, Coleman Caballero (Junior, Studly)—swing: long, fluid, and multidirectional. Team #1 leads off the par 5 first hole, as a threesome. Rookie Zinger sends a perfect drive to the top of the hill.
"Ringer! Ringer!" come the shouts from the peanut gallery assembled in their carts around the first tee.
Jeff protests, "That may be the only one of my shots we're going to use today."
And then a miracle doesn't happen.
The miracle being good, consistent golf. The photo on the right is Blaine's view of Hole #4, a short par 3. Blaine's team has already bogeyed the first par 3, having to use a tee shot that landed in a sand bunker 30 yards remaining to the hole.
Note: A scramble golf format—which is the main method for group competition in a "golf outing"—has four-person teams. Every player makes a stroke from the same location, then the subsequent location is determined by the "best shot." Thus, the score for the team represents what the best shots of all four players would be. Typically, for evenly matched teams of league golfers, the scores from blue tees will be within a few strokes of par.
"I don't want to sound negative," announces Big Jack, "but it sure looks like a lot of sand out there. Reminds me of hole #2."
"Right, but it's good sand," says Blaine.
"Like, '... it's a dry heat,'" suggests Chief.
So team # stands up and for no apparent reason repeats its performance on the first par three: one shot dribbled at a right angle into the shrubs off to the side, one shot slapped deep into the trees, and two pulled into the near sand bunker. Bogey.
Yikes, Blaine thinks. The team is now +2 (above par), and has just gotten underway.
But on hole #5—a short but devilish par 5—Team #4 redeems itself with a birdie 4. Lo gets them out there off the tee, then Big Jim hits a monster 5-wood to the apron of the green less than 50 yards away, Blaine pitches it to about 20 feet, and Big Jack sinks the putt.
"This is good," Blaine says. "With the increased length from the blue tees and the cool conditions, most likely every team is going to struggle. We're showing some real toughness."
"Yeah," pipes up the Chief, "let's get it to even by the turn (after nine holes), then grab a couple of birdies on the back nine. Should be a contender at -2. Even the LsubY team #1 will stumble here and there."
Blaine sees the beauty of a scramble as twofold: a) every player gets the experience of how it feels to play at par, and b) victory usually goes, not to the best team on paper, or with the best A player, but to the team who can nut it out—the team with the best character and enthusiasm that given day. Well, three: even if you let down, the team spirit collapses, you suffer major unexpected foulups and fall out of contention, you can still have fun. Many's the time he's
Author's note: As a fledgling writer of fiction, I find it difficult to jump into the deep end of "total imagination." So, while this is a work of fiction—and the characters' names, words, and actions are made up—I did use a real life golf outing for inspiration. People on the outing will probably know the real persons behind the characters. For that reason, and others, I'm cleaving to the Thumper Principle: "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." (Except for Fred, who was a total dirtball. :))
view of Hole #4, a short par 3. Blaine's team has already bogeyed the first par 3, having to use a tee shot that landed in a sand bunker 30 yards remaining to the hole.
