Author: Tim Andersen

A Saturday with Santa

A Saturday with Santa
By Chip Cringle

Hey Chip, Mel wasn’t having any of that service animal stuff. Isn’t this California? If she didn’t make such a yummy Manhattan, why I’d put her on the naughty list. Easy Santa, I said, Randy already has. We’ll take our drinks outside and see how many of our PCGC golf scholars think Dasher and Prancer are lawn ornaments. Tell the “therapy reindeers” to watch out for CDub, Brian U and that new guy, Franky Moro. Why asked, the jolly one, are they hunters? The first two are, the other one just sprays the ball a bit. FORE!

Hey Santa, nice decorations they look so real, have you seen my ball? I know him, the man in red said, that’s Frank, he asks for the same thing every year, to beat El Camino in football and shorter school days. Chip, inquired Frank, where is my relief from these man-made objects?

Sitting out on the patio, Santa noticed Swingin Mr. Stevens, Blue Lou and the Sons of Civil Servants loading provisions from the cart girl. I’ll bet you a drink Chip, said the jolly one, they order three vitamin V’s with lime and one Miller Lite. Kevin can learn scurvy avoidance from those three.

Chairman Mike, Dennis K, Rod Wyman and a few of the other “Inside Boys” pulled up an adjourning table. Mel, keeping with the spirit of the holidays, began taking drink orders. Soon the bar was empty, and the patio packed. Cabo Nick smiled, winked and yelled out, “is this going to be the year”? Santa shook his head no, then thanked him for his very descriptive wish list.

Bill Feely, always the giver, asked for a Giants centerfielder and third baseman. For no apparent reason, perhaps bragging rights, Levi and Jeff K asked Santa to restore their jump shots to early 70’s levels.

And so it went long into that sunny winters’ day. Ray Yoshak back from exile nodded to Red, and the reindeers, and offered this toast,

“May your fairways always be green and vast,

your putts true, your horses fast,

your golf days many, and your burdens light,

so here’s to everyone on this wonderful night”.

Merry Chipmas!

Across the Alley from the Alamo

Across the Alley from the Alamo
By Fighting Chip

This, the fall of my discontent, has weighed heavily upon my golf game.  It has almost gotten to the point where I flip my collar up, turn my back to the past and put my thumb out.  Orange slices, 3 foot gimmies and mandatory post-round group hugs have me wondering whether the PCGC has been infiltrated by hard line commies, or worse, the AYSO.  The AYSO is a youth soccer anti-competition terrorist group.  They are hell bent on leveling the playing field into mediocrity.  Is there any wonder why multi-club snipers from Crystal Springs, Green Hills and HMB travel down to our flat lands and dominate our NCGA events?  The answer is quite simple, we have become soft!  Dave Goddard, Bobby McConnel, and The Moose are sipping a cold one somewhere in the afterlife nodding in agreement.

The Maginot Line, the ill-conceived and easily defeated WWII first line of French Defense is the Alamo compared to our limp-wristed, left-wing approach.  We penalize the winners!  Our course rating and slope are too high.  Play a good round, win a tournament or two, blow up your handicap and then get penalized.  Good God, are we pandering to Gaven Newsom in advance of his governorship?

We must Fight Back!  Bring back the first daylight tee times.  This will hinder the pro shops ability to slip 15 groups in ahead of our tournaments.  Those with mani-pedis who don’t like the wet, the cold or the early, can simply play in the back of the field.  Bring back the pace of play.  The NBA, which has even more prima donnas then we do, has a shot clock, why not us?  Four hours and twelve minutes is a very comfortable round.

The Lake Course at the Olympic Club, one of the finest clubs in the world, has these words on the first tee bench: Play Fair, Play Fast, Have Fun.

It is time for us the members, and the board that represents us, to Fight Back!

Golf and the Late Night Benediction

Golf and the Late Night Benediction
By Chip, The Deacon of Dryness

Merriment reigned throughout the grill that night.  The clock inched toward a new day and our early morning tee times, but no one headed to the exits.  The occasion, Club Championship Eve, the holiest day on the P.C.G.C. calendar and we were all still in the hunt.  The contenders, the pretenders, the has been's and the field bets were all sitting on the lead.  Not a double boogie or four iron is thrown in anger in the entire field.  It was a heady time at Poplar Creek.  We carried ourselves like champions, well more like champions in the winning locker room afterward, but that is only a minor detail.

Thanks to the bar being three deep, I was forced into new territory, I became a listener.  From my somewhat dry perch, I was able to hear the prayers and hopes of our golfers.

“I can hold this lead, said Randy G., if I can manage to keep the ball in the fairway.”   Out of the crowd, I heard someone, presumingly from Southern San Mateo, say,  you all have no chance, if the cart girl has cold Coronas and fresh limes.  No Chance!  “Birdies not Scurvy, right Artie, answered the quiet and unassuming Rod Wyman.  You have to be the healthiest guy in naval history”

“Wait to you guys see my back nine on Sunday, it’ll remind you guys of Pickett’s charge at  Gettysburg.  Tell ’em  Bill, you were there.”  “Sid, countered Feely, don’t you mean Custer at the Little Big Horn?”  And so it went, good natured banter echoing between the leaders, deep into the night.

Swingin’ Mr. Stevens summed it up best, later this morning, when we can hear our heartbeats in the darkness when thoughts get quiet and clear, we will all entertain the club champion dreams of the everyday golfer.

Good Luck, Dreamers.  

Bingo on Thursday!

Sub Rosa Chip

Sub Rosa Chip 
by Chip Undercover

Disguised in a trench coat, false mustache, and a somewhat stylish Fedora, I went undercover at a rival golf club on a fact finding mission.  Unfortunately, Sean Penn was unavailable to offer assistance.  My mission, to find a golf course and a restaurant run independently, and discover how they treat their members and customers.  It has long been my contention, Poplar Creek as a whole doesn’t value our club's contributions to the golf course and their bottom lines.  I wanted to discover how the other half lives.

To learn this I had to sink into the murky underbelly of the golf world undetected.  I was at an unnamed public course in Pacifica doing just that, when Bill Feeley spotted me on the putting green.  He yelled, “Hey Chip, where have you been, we miss you over at Poplar Creek.”  Like the Southwest Airlines ads, this was a “want to get away” moment.  

The members I had so well groomed, suddenly became very leery of me.  The space around me doubled and then doubled again.  I was in a bad position.  I had to think quickly in order to save months of research.  I yelled back at Billy, “For the next five minutes, I have an open bar tab.”

Suddenly, I felt like a leper standing all alone on the golf course.  The members swarmed the bar like locusts destroying everything in its path.  Vegetation, equipment, small animals, and children were carried away by this human tsunami.  In the ebb tide of this humanity, I saw an endangered frog toasting a low handicapper.  A taxidermist and a tree hugging PETA woman enjoying a drink together.  In essence, a club where both sides got along for the good of each other. It was mind numbing.  

While this course is in poor shape, it makes Poplar look like Augusta, both sides get it.  I am hopeful that someday we will too.  

“Hey Billy, how much do I owe?"