En Garde
By Cutting Edge Chip
Outlined by the blue gray November sky rides not the four horseman of the apocalypse, but the man with the ascot wielding his rapier-like wit. En garde. Confined by little pond anonymity, efforts are underfoot to bring Chip to a bigger stage, the PGA Tour. Hall of Famers Herbert Warren Wind, Grantland Rice and Bob Stevens make room at your fabled press table for golf’s most unread writer.
The PGA, long the red-headed step child of the four majors, is coming to Harding Park next year. A major at a muni without Chip would be unheard of. The people’s champion of turn dogs, lower beer prices and all things anti-“country club” must be in attendance. My unpaid staff, petrified as usual that payment of any kind may legally incriminate them, are working feverishly to obtain my press credentials.
Imagine after round one, the chagrin of the press conference mediator when he says, next question, you in the corner. Wait, is that a smoking jacket? It has always been my contention these coddled semi athletes need to be asked more probing questions. For example, are golfers really athletes? Take away Tiger, Hale Irwin (football) and Jack (basketball) and I have my doubts. John Daly receives special consideration for his dedication to Bad Decisions and Blondes, only a true athlete could get knocked down as often as he has and still get up. As for the others, they are only twenty something flat bellies with good swings and nice teeth.
“Ror’s, your play today was substandard, is there any truth that you were over served at Molloy’s yesterday? Before you answer that question, remember Jameson is for winners, not whiners.”
“Tiger, you berate the bumpy poa annua greens of Harding Park, its less that tour like conditions and its cool coastal air, do I have to remind you that you grew up on munis? You dominate Torrey and Pebble, both munis and you complain. For the love of golf, man, putt for the people.”
“Phil, Chip Amore PCGC, I understand you have concerns that there aren’t any Waffle House diners within 1,500 miles of Harding and how this might affect your pregame routine. Rest assured, we have over three thousand restaurants and at least one Five Guys Burgers in town. Bon Appetit, big guy.”
At this juncture, I would rejoin the big three, no, not Arnie, Jack and Gary Player, but the writers to discuss my first press conference. Herbert Warren Wind would be the first to chime in by saying, “Chip, while yout ascot screams ‘New Yorker’, your writing does not.” Grantland Rice, swinging his head from side to side, removed his medicinal hip flask and said, “Your brash, my boy and I really like your lead, don’t listen to that tweed wearing pipe smoker.” Bob Stevens, with his gentlemanly manner would break the tie with this summation. “Men, you both have good points, Chip does have a rather unique style. It’s not ‘New Yorker’, but it definitely is not fish wrap either. Golf might not match your talents Chip, have you ever thought about covering pro wrestling or maybe Judge Judy.”
