I arrived at the east gate of the golf course Saturday morning, glad to see Skippy at the entrance post and not the commandant lady, who must have grown up around the Iron Curtain as she takes the word “security” to a new level.
I told Skippy I had a 9:32 tee-time. and after checking his list, he waved me through.
The sky was gray but it didn’t look like rain, although I had gone through a pretty good downpour 30 minutes before. The thermostat on my dash said it was 72 outside.
I was meeting Nichols, Nestrud and Simpson, three lawyer-friends. I arrived first and soon found out that our tee time had been pushed back nearly an hour due to some sort of members tournament they decided to have at the last minute.
I headed to the range, an elevated plateau that looks down onto four or five targets, ranging from 125 to over 200 yards. I found a spot near the end, away from the others so as to not cause any damage.
Attempting a stretch, I bent over to tried and touch my shoes, but I never got closer than a foot away. But I was able to straighten back up, so I had that going for me.
I had brought a wedge, a six-iron and my driver, and began with the six. After a couple of practice swings, I set up over the ball, checked the target again and began the takeaway. Coming down, I accelerated while trying to remain smooth and saw the ball take off, unshanked and on a good line, through the light fog toward a blue flag.
After about 20 decent strikes, I headed to the putting green.
We were able to tee off a little earlier at 10:15, and my round was going along pretty well, with good chances at birdie on one and three. So I was one over when we teed off on four, the beautiful par three with water on the left. I hit a good shot but either didn’t have enough club or caught a gust of wind, and the ball took one hop off the bank and splashed bigger than a Chinese diver. Four shots later, I walked disgustedly off the green.
My attitude didn’t improve for awhile, mainly because of the three old guys in front of us and the four old guys in front of them. It had gotten pretty slow, and we found ourselves waiting on every shot.
We were about to make our way to the tenth tee when two ladies pulled up next to us. I recognized them as the twosome who had been waiting behind us all morning. I also could never remember seeing two ladies in a group by themselves on a Saturday morning.
“Do you mind if we play through?” the blonde driver asked through a smile.
For a moment I thought she must have been joking, but then I knew she wasn’t.
“We’re waiting on every shot, but if you think you want to, then it’s OK with me,” I told her.
I looked at Simpson and said, “OK with you?”
He looked a bit stunned and, try as he may, he couldn’t seem to get the words to come out. Instead, what came out of the smooth and renowned litigator’s mouth sounded something like “Eeeyagomuck.” I worried for a second he might be having a stroke.
I told the blonde again that we were waiting on every shot, and she shot a worried glance at Simpson and said, “Oh. Yes. I thought you were.”
As Jimmy and I drove to the next tee, we wished the late, great Sam Kinison had been with us.