Author: Tim Andersen

Merry #$$%^Chipmas

Merry #$$%^Chipmas
by CensorChip  

We entered the grill, Santa and I, to a profanity-laced welcome reserved only for politicians and the rare Forty Niners touchdown.  It was colorful and timely.  The big man, no stranger to Poplar Creek or the menagerie that is our membership, responded in like fashion.  “Don’t any of you @##$%^&ing derelicts have homes?” Belly laughs ensued and another magical Saturday was afoot.

Golfers, without a doubt, are the finest users of cuss words in the sports world. The only possible exception is bocce, but without an interpreter the flavor gets lost.  Poplar Creek, with its unmercifully long rounds, poor conditions and overpriced green fees, is the undisputed leader of off color language.  Many of our players can go three or four rounds without repeating an adjective.  “It's linguistically beautiful in its creative usage,” stated language expert Artie F-ing White.  The really good ones let the moment depict the language.  “Its like Jim Nance calling the Masters on a late night cable station unfiltered.  The worse the golf shot, the better the verbal tirade”, remarked Mike Shaffer.

Luckily this creativity carries over into the bar.  All efforts to tone down the language are defeated by the arrival of the next member.  “It’s kind of like a loud secret handshake that everyone on the property can hear”, said Mike Woodall.  

Santa and I, well into our cheer, reveled at the uninhibited joy of golfers complaining about the sport they love to hate.  It was #$%$%^^&&ing fantastic.

Merry Chipmas

 

Chiplomatic

Chiplomatic
By What the Chip

After a rather pleasant Saturday morning round of golf, I encountered someone I didn’t think existed here at PCGC, a critic.  Some wags might suggest we have 325 of them, but not like this one.  This unnamed member had an opinion on everything from our pace of play policy to course conditions to his constant lousy tee pairings.  I didn’t dismiss him as a crackpot until he slandered the ascot. What nerve!  He must truly be a troubled individual.  

With my trusty cool beverage safely beside me, I climbed onto a new bar stool to ponder his views.  He was right to say, even with a broken leg in a snow storm it shouldn’t take four hours to play here.  I couldn’t find fault in his perception that the course was in bad shape and overpriced.  He as even correct in his assertions playing here hurts his handicap.

I couldn’t allow myself to agree with this crackpot, I just couldn’t.  I thought about calling Hillary to see how she dealt with it, but with her wounds so fresh and still harboring my backing Mike Love grudge, I did not.  I didn’t want to invoke the ample wisdom of my usual council either, as this was a personal journey.  I left the burdens instead to a jury of three, me, my beer and my bartender.  Man’s most trusted trinity.

Mel, I said, why do I feel so bad agreeing with this guy?  She told me that even the daftest of members, and we have many to choose from, must be given his due.  Remember Chip, you are on the board, she continued.  You can arrange never to have him in your foursome again.  She, as is almost always the case, was right.  Rank does have it’s privileges.   
 

Chip on Chip

Chip on Chip
by Chip Squared

Earlier this month, I was summoned to the 49er training facility in Santa Clara. After repeated phone calls, I relented and agreed to a meeting.  Like everyone else in the state, I was well aware of their ongoing quarterback woes.  I was impressed, however, with their research on me.  With no film available, and even less interest, someone had to piece my playing career together through articles in the Warrior Gazette, San Mateo Times and the Enterprise Journal.

I assembled an entourage any NFLer and most NBA types would be proud of.  My lawyer, Blue Moon Retainer, loaded the usual suspects into Touchy Feeley’s RV, Day Tripper.  The pros were there, Dana and Levi.  Kevin O’Malley and Dan Murray provided Irish Muscle as well as Irish Coffees for this long journey.  The Bigs were there, Cat and Al, setting the stage and the odds on this unlikely try-out (5 to 1 against).

Our arrival at the facility, reminiscent of a Billy Carter visit to the White House, was met with reluctance, suspicion and lots of security.  Matters escalated when Bill refuse to allow Day Tripper to be valet parked.  Blue Lou, the Sons of Civil Servants and Mike Bradley surrounded the beer venders in the lot demanding lower prices and free refills. 

Luckily Chip Kelly stepped in to quell security and escort us in.  In a calm voice, so not to awake my Irish security, he asked, “Chip what’s all of this about and why are you in workout clothes?”  Taken aback, I said, why else would you ask me here?  Your team is in trouble, you’re new in town, you probably haven’t establish a personal watering hole, so my men and I are here to help.

He said he appreciated that but really wanted to know if the Bay Area was big enough for two Chips. I told him it was as long as he could accept being second fiddle we would have no problems.  He nodded, grabbed his clipboard and lead us to the field.  As I was working out with the first unit, my entourage was quietly “collecting” souvenirs.  “This NFL stuff has great resale value", said Bill the Web.  Maybe we will acquire enough of it to cover our bill in the stadium club.”  

I finished the practice going 7 for 18 for 123 yards.  A very Gabber-Nick performance.  I am awaiting a contract offer any day now.  

Man Versus Woman

Man Versus Woman
By Clueless Chip

It was a work day, that much I can say with a reasonable amount of certainty. I was busy grinding away on the range trying hard to quell my demons.  These tormentors are far too numerous and ingrained to be defeated, they can only be pacified.  The more I worked the deeper in the zone I got.  It was somewhere between good versus evil, right versus wrong, gin versus vodka, when I made a discovery. Golf Nirvana.  I was on the cusp of having all eight cylinders, not the usual four, firing at once.  It was her simple "nice swing" that interrupted my reverie.  Man versus woman.
  
She was tall athletic and sassy.  Her fragrant voice sounded the way jasmine smells in the morning, sweet and tempting. She explained how she was currently between drivers and in need of expert advice.  Did she think I was David Leadbetter or Doctor Ruth?   A bit confused, but in true Chip manner, I swallowed the bait.  Whole!

She swung a few clubs with surprising tempo and ability.  Her swing was flawless.  She took out two drivers, her boys she called them, and explained her commitment phobia.  One woman two drivers, even James Worthy (think back readers) would call this a problem.  She hit them both half heartedly and with little enthusiasm.

Instantly I knew the answer.  Sounding like so many mothers in my past, I told her, "These guys just aren’t right for you.  What you need is a club that swings you.  Something fun with a business side.  What you need is a truck driving poet.  Let’s go see Mel and get you fitted.”

After a few drinks and dinner, she excused her self.  I was momentarily alone, awaiting her return, wondering how I was doing.  Did the lesson work?  Did she get the subtle nuances of my game. It was then I heard the door slam and the tires squeal.  At least I had the check.  Oh well, back to the range.