Sunday Morning Aftermath
Chip by the Numbers
I awoke with the taste of stale wine, a drum solo pounding in my head, and the unmistakeable feeling that something was wrong in my universe. It was the Sunday morning Kris Kristofferson and Willie Nelson sing about, and it was crashing down on me hard. Cobwebs and fuzz filled my memory. Something was a miss, but, I just couldn’t place my finger on it.
The day before was the Turkey Shoot and spirits were high. The “A” list was out. If PCGC had a red carpet, this would have been the time to use it. All the greats were there. Cabo Nick, Blue Moon, Swingin Mr. Stevens, the sons of civil servants, Sonic, Big Al all in the house. Behind the bar, dispensing drinks, wisdom and dissecting golf swings was Mel. What could possibly be be wrong with this picture? This was my dilemma.
I believe it was somewhere between Advil seven and five and bloody Mary number two or four, that the light began to flicker on. The day was muni-tastic, but it was just too short. Pace of play was once again torturously slow, somewhere in the six hour range. Valuable bar time with these giants of the game was being wasted watching members plumb bob two footers for nines. Something needs to be done.
As my mental fog began to lift and the sky cleared, I came up with a brilliant solution. Handicappers over eight just won’t play the par threes. Write down a four on your scorecard and move on. Pace of play will improve, scores will be lower, there will be necking in the parlor, life will be wonderful.
Good God, the universe is right again, now we all have something to be thankful for.