A relaxing dinner on Sunday evening seemed like a good idea. Everybody was a little tired, but rum-based cocktails for the men and sparkling concoctions for the gals would ease the pain. The ladies set out, cosmos in hand, on a garden tour while the meal, a pork and chicken mix with Bellisimo’s sweet potatoes and rolled asparagus, fragrantly simmered in the kitchen. All was well.
The Doc poured the second round just before the topic came up. You know the topic, that last afternoon of the Manning Member-Member Tournament, the finals of the first flight. The Doc and his partner Dave the 19, aka The Team, were to take on the newest A-Z entry, Zac and Gus, aka The Kids.
Certainly the Doc and The Team were up to the measure. You know, the Doc, the surgeon, the seasoned competitor, the guardian of golf etiquette, the consummate fan and self-professed observer of life. That Doc. And, The Team, battle tested, former champion, the calm enthusiast, the oddsmaker. No problem. All would be right with the world. Pour on Johnny boy!
Sure enough, The Team got them started. Through the first five, The Team had surged to a two hole lead. The gallery carts began to assemble in anticipation of a veteran celebration. Johnny’s specials were bountifully distributed four to a cart. A splendid afternoon lay ahead. Experience would prevail, youth would wait impatiently and the party weekend would roll along well past the steak roast.
Then, Gus hit a monumental drive on six, found the green, made four net three and the game was on! Zac stung one into Sleasman country down by the bridge on 7. Doc faltered with his chip and the match was all square. But, something else had just happened.
Perhaps it began with that faulty chip. But the skulled shot on nine sealed the deal. Zac’s eagle on 10 increased the cart people’s anxiety. The party weekend was ending aprubtly. Then there was a series of mystifying putts surrounding a flamboyant shank. The real Mccoy! “Was it possible?” a young female whispered while gumming her straw. “Call Bella!”
This could not happen to the man who bruises Bella’s furniture while exercising his winter chipping regimen. Certainly that man knew pressure. This man who plays with his putter most nights of his life would find his way. This man who in the midst of a conversation suddenly acquires a glazed look and steps back to inexplicably grip an invisible club before mysteriously commencing his ritualistic set up then executing a flawlees swing at an imaginary ball with an imaginary club! This man that we watch, hoping he will return before playing the entire front nine with that imaginary club and ball would be steadfast.. This man… this man could not falter. It was unthinkable!
Anyway, in the midst of the second round of drinks, and during a discussion of the Obama-Clinton fiasco, the topic arose. Apparently, it had been on the surface for a while. The Doc stared down at the floor. “That was something wasn’t it?” he asked.
“You mean the DNC and the Florida-Michigan resolution? Yuh. That was something. I think she might finally go away.”
“Do you think it was a stroke?” he puzzled. “Could I… have had a stroke?”
“Oh. That. Well, you’re the doctor. You are the best judge of that. But, from the layman’s view, it could have been. But… it seems to have subsided.” I turned away from him, staring out the window. “Davey took it well. I mean he kept plugging away.”
Suddenly he turned off the range, covered the meat with foil, removed the potatoes and asparagus from the oven, picked up his drink, grabbed a wedge and charged outside. I sat dumbfounded. What about dinner? What about Bella? I considered calling 911. Would he slit his wrist? Not with his wedge! I waited anxiously.
The ladies came through the front door. “What’s with dinner?” Bella roared.
“Umm, I’m… I’m not sure. Bella… The Doc… he left.”
“Oh goodie!” she roared. “At last!”
“Uh, I don’t know. I… I had better take a look.”
“Don’t look too hard,” Bella said, hustling to the range. “I’m hungry. Where’s my cosmo?”
“Uh, yuh. Okay.” I went out through the screened door. To my left was a red flag mystiically placed at the edge of Bella’s garden. I turned to the right. There he was. Standing on his rubber mat, alone on a small island in the back corner of the garden. A bucket of balls sat at his side. The untrustworthy wedge in hand, he seemed harmless. He was going through the routine. You know the one. The setup, the weight arrangement, the smooth take away, the swing. I mean it seemed safe enough. Then it struck me. He dared not pitch the ball. He was swinging, but over the ball. I mean really. It had been just a shank… and a half! It happens. Certainly, not the end of the world.
“It’s okay,” I offered. “Go ahead. Hit it. The neighbors are safe. They put that big stockade fence over there to your right.”
He stared down. “No, no, it is not okay.” He flinched. “Trust me.” He mumbled, “it… it’s not high enough.”
“I see. Hmm. Perhaps we should eat? We… we can come back to this later. Might be a good place to be after more cosmos.”
“Yuh, okay, we’ll eat. But… but… will you… will you carve?”
Bella’s Pin
A 10 minute glimpse into the Casano/Pipas household captured brilliantly!!! – The Lindsay Review
Oh a day in the life….I may decide to give up golf after such distress. I’d rather be Hillary after that day!