Category: Columnists

Saints and Sinners
By Holy Chip

The banner flying above the grill looked well worn and a bit tattered, it read First Annual Saint Patrick's Day Open.  It seemed innoucous enough, a religious group having a charity event. My only real concern was if I could find a seat at the bar.    

Inside the bar it looked like a costume party as everyone seemed to be dressed in period clothing.  I found a seat next to a man in a flowing robe, Nike golf sandals, a Notre Dame visor and a Ping shillelagh.  I introduced myself and said, Pat you throw quite a party.  He said, the "Open", mine was first, has grown to the point where we now have a waiting list. He saw my puzzled look and said, Oh the sign. I'm Irish, so I'm cheap, plus I can get another forty years out of that sucker.

I said, the costumes were a nice touch.  "Chip, he said, those aren't costumes, Hell, pardon my French, these are their work clothes.  Take a closer look at these people and you will be surprise."  I did, and then it hit me.  This was not an ordinary golf tournament.  He explained that it started out simple enough, a few guys from the office getting together for a little golf and fun. "It got old fast, those holy rollers don't gamble, drink or chase snakes, if you know what I mean."  It was sometime after the Crusades and before the Beatles that I had a talk with the big guy about making this a true open. He gave me access to the other side and thus these historical characters.

If you think about it Chip, he continued, these guys aren't much different from your membership.  Take Mosses over there, he has never lost a golf ball in a water hazard, but must be constantly reminded that it is a two stroke penalty for burning a bush.  Pat, you seem to be heavily represented by one side. I see bank robbers, politicians, lawyers, where are the good guys.  "You know the old saying, Heaven for scenery, Hell for the company.  I've just taken it to the extreme.  I don't like to play with world events, but I couldn't help myself today.  I put Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton in a cart together without security.  Let the better man win."

We went down the list disecting the games of thugs, muggers, sinners and saints. At one point, I looked up and saw a man with keys and asked if he was Saint Joesph.  No, he told me, that's the devil's advocate, Steveo Desantis.  I shook my head and said I should have recognized the vintage San Mateo Locks shirt.  Wait Pat, isn't that our Mel.  Yes, he said, blushing, she has a heavenly swing and makes a devilishly good martini.
 
Happy Saint Patrick's Day

Gone Hollywood
by Star Chip Enterprise

Life after the publishing of my book, “No Off Switch to Genius”, it has been a whirlwind personal appearances.  It has been mostly the mundane stuff ranging from food festivals and new product launching to virgin sacrifices and bar openings.  It is basically the same, make an opening statement, pimp the book, cut a ribbon and pose for photo ops.

When the Feherty people from the Golf Channel called to speak to my people about coming on their show, they were dumbfounded when I answered the phone. They said they couldn’t speak directly to me, but only to my staff.  It just couldn’t be done like this.  The horrified assistant began mumbling something to her assistant and put me on hold.  After an uncomfortably long pause, much like the wait on the second and third tee boxes, a very legal sounding voice came on the line.  He said, if I didn’t have an entourage or could not afford one, one would be appointed for me.

Easy Tiger, I said.  If you have a green room with a fully stocked bar and finger food, I will have an entourage.  There is nothing more motivational to PCGC members than free food and booze.  I then inquired if the room could hold three hundred and if they had RV parking.  I told him to visualize the scene from the movie, “Tin Cup” where they all filed out of the Winnebago at the US Open minus Renee Russo.

He stuttered in that legalese manner reserved only for pro bono work and crooked politicians.  He said he would have to check on the size of the room and the parking situation, then rang off.

In my minds eye I could see the proceedings very clearly.  In the center of the room would be ’Swinging’ Mr. Stevens and Blue Lou sipping on "see throughs.”  On the sofa with their feet up, cold one in hand, Mike and Dennis K would be talking tennis and football.  Merriment and loud discussions of which of the Stooges were the funniest would ring out.  John Jurgens would sneak off with the pretty sound girl.  The Sons of Civil Servants would be enjoying red clam chowder and blue label.  Bill Feeley and Mike Woodall would have Feherty cornered in silent captivity asking questions to no one imparticular.

There is nothing like a PCGC road trip.  I will have to ask my people if anyone got a return number for that guy.

Santa Muni
Chip Kringle

Say Santa, do you want to walk or ride?  I got this covered, Chip, I brought Rudy and a couple of the boys to take us around.  I just feel bad for the foursome behind us, I guess they will learn the real meaning of full relief, if you know what I mean.  Of course, Big Guy, but with your clout, why aren't we playing Augusta, Pebble, or Pine Valley?  Why did you pick Poplar Creek?  

Chip, despite my fancy red suit and custom Foot Joy boots,  I am a muni golfer at heart.  For the people and by the people and all of that.   Besides, I have my Cesena G-6, Air Santa, parked over at SFO.  I really don't mind the slow play and the poor conditions here, as long as Mel's working the bar.  Good call my man, let me introduce you to the rest of the foursome.  No, Chip, let me guess who they are by their wish list status.  Ok Chubs, have at it.  

That's Billy Feeley, red wagon, air rifle and a belly putter.  So this must be John Jargons, I have wanted to meet you for years. You have been asking for Miss October since 1954, why October? Santa, those other months are just too hot for me, replied John.

We were literally flying around the course, Randy G took care of all the air traffic control concerns, as word got out that Santa was indeed in town.  The gallery grew on every hole.  The members came out in numbers usually reserved for free food, to gawk and stare.  The Elf Elite, Santa's security team, was called in.  By the time we landed on 18, The crowd was eight deep. To his credit, Santa greeted each and every member by name.  He smiled at Cabo Nick, shook his head, and simply said no.  

The lovely sirens of this column,  The Chip-etts, held the inner most circle around the green. They were rewarded with a knowing wink and a promise that he'd would see them in their dreams.  The man has style.  We putted out to cheers and unbridled  joy.  Rudy and the boys parked us on the roof.  We then enjoyed several Cuba Libres.  After several more, the belly laughs could be heard for miles around. 

At some point, the jolly fat man stood up and yelled, Merry Chip-mas to one and all!           

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.