Life lessons to learn on the links; don't try some of these at home
Super Son drove the cart like he’d been driving his entire life (best line: “It only goes about 10 kilometres an hour, it’s not like Mom’s car”) and there were no tumbles, spills and only one retreat from one fairway to the previous green to retrieve a forgotten wedge (him, not me).
Anyway, try as I might, I couldn’t get the young lad to wager and, yeah, it kind of made a day of golf a bit less interesting. After all, who doesn’t like to have a little something on the line just to make the day interesting.
He’s so content with the major bucks he brings in weekly as Buggy Boy that he didn’t want his father getting in his pocket; smart kid, I guess.
You see, what was once the regular foursome – or the six guys who alternately made up the regular foursome depending on work and family commitments and the length of time Super Wives had been feeding us Alpo for whatever indiscretion got us in the doghouse – used to have a series of wagers that took an abacus to figure out but added some juice to the day.
We’ve had Nassaus with each of the other three guys (“you give me two a side, I’ll give you one a side, I’ll take three from you on the front and we’ll renegotiate at the turn” used to be the first tee conversations) along with sundry other group bets.
There’d be sandies and Arnies and bingo-bango-bongo; sometimes we’d change up two-man teams every six holes just so we could alternately help and loathe our playing partners and then, for good measure, we’d bring out the Snake.
Well, it could get pretty costly, actually.
You’d hold “the snake” every time you three-putt and it grows every time someone does and the poor bloke “holding” it when the round’s over owes each of other three guys a buck for each three putt.
Let’s say as a group you have 10 in a round, quite a plausible number as it turns out, and you’re the last guy in the group to have three-whacked a green. That means you owe each of the other three $10 and, I swear, I’ve seen days where playing 17 and 18 was like a clinic in how to miss a green from a fairway; it’s far easier and smarter to play about 10 yards short so you can get up and down in two or three rather than to strike a six-iron beautifully from 170 yards that leaves you 50 feet of double-breaking downhiller to negotiate.
Ah, so much to teach a young golfer, isn’t there?
Oh, you knew this was coming, right?
So yesterday they find out that Joey Bats is done for the year, the kid Stroman didn’t know enough to check with a trainer before eating some medication he bought over the counter and he’s got 50 games to think about how dumb that was.
Toss in the fact it seems about a dozen pitchers are at some level of post-operative rehab, JP Arencibia hasn’t caught a game in a month or so and we have no idea if, or when, Hobbs Brett Lawrie will be back and I wonder just how often every day that Alex Anthopoulos curses the Baseball Gods.
Seriously, this season has gone so far off the rails in so many ways for TOD it’s almost like you just have to laugh and shake your head in incredulity and chalk it up to “just one of those seasons.”
But I must admit it’s been a huge disappointment; this year was supposed to be fun, it’s turned into a late-summer, early-fall death march, just like so many other years.
Yes, the weekend approacheth so, yes, we shall solicit mail from all our friends and acquaintances and those among you with queries on your minds.
Raptors news. Such that it is.
Boy, am I ever glad I spent a couple of hours Sunday slogging through our arduous on-like booking tool to set up October-November-December travel.
Especially happy that I found, finally, a somewhat convenient flight to Memphis for the pre-season game (you try getting easy flights there, dare ya) just two days before THEY CHANGED THE DATE OF THE GAME!
Still don’t have a reason – Memphis paper can’t tell me, team website doesn’t have an explanation – but if you were going on Oct. 15, don’t. Go on Oct. 26 instead, see you there.
Oh, boss? We’re going to have to pay a wee penalty to change my flight, blame Memphis. That’s what happens when you book/plan early.
Oh yeah, one more golf story that’s kind of gambling and recommended for only the hearties of you out there.
It’s known as The Cooler of Terror
You know all those little bottles of liquors you have stashed somewhere in the house, the little shot bottles of scotch or rye or rum or port or gin or vodka or whatever?
Well, you grab one of those small cooler bags we all use for bottles of water or whatever and all four guys bring all the tiny bottles they have and dump them in there.
Now, here’s where it gets good.
Every time one of you three putts, someone holds the bag above his head, the offending bad putter reached in blindly, grabs a bottle and has to drink it.
Right there. Greenside.
I’m telling you, if you can’t get the speed of the greens or have trouble reading lines, it can be a loooooooong day.
Or, as we’ve said:
"The more you three-putt … the more you three-putt.”
Nope, Super Son couldn’t do that one, that’s for sure.
And I don’t recommend it for you, either.
Well, I kind of do but make sure someone’s waiting in the parking lot with a big car to drive you all home.
Okay, we’ll be back to some semblance of normal, whatever that is, tomorrow morning.