Category: Columnists

Handicaps and Other Tom Foolery

Handicaps and Other Tom Foolery
by Holy Chip

Blue Moon Retainer, my trusty attorney, and I trekked down to Monterey for an audience with the Pope of Slope.  After kissing his ring, diamonds inlaid on an emerald field encased in gold, we began a lively discussion of the merits of the handicap system.  So lively in fact, the Pope's security force, the Swiss Guard, was placed on high alert.  There is nothing neutral about the barrel of an Uzi.

Our main point of contention was how clubs could take established handicaps and lower them at will, with your blessings.  This, I argued, rewarded mediocrity at the expense of the honest golfer who practices and plays tournaments well.  He explained, a golfer should only shoot under his number 3 times in twenty rounds. Exasperated by such lunacy, I asked if the PCGC, our club, was trying to become AYSO.  Could we expect a hug and an orange slice at the end of a round?  Will we throw our scorecards into a hat, blindly draw and give everyone a chance to win? Where have the hard liners like John Noce (CSM), Bud Presley (Menlo), and Ricky Bobbie (SAG) gone?  If you ain't first, you're last.

The Pope placed his calming hands on our shoulders, had the Swiss Guard stand down, and then very patiently explained his position.  Between us, he said, my system is a flawed mathematical algorithm designed to baffle, bemuse and befuddle those with a handicap under ten.  I will never admit this in open court, sorry counselor, but I hate golfers.  I only do this job so I can ride around town in that bubbled golf cart. Clint doesn't even have one.  Now give me two "Our Fathers", and a "Hail Mary".  And you Chip, leave a little something in the basket.

*SAG=Screen Actors Guild 

Next month: who knows, just depends of the quality of the well scotch.

Sand and Rain

Sand and Rain
by Chip Isle

I was waiting near the second tee box, when my mind began to wonder. Suddenly, I was in the land of palm trees and Coppertone, mai tais and bikinis.  I was on island time now.  No rush, no worries, no multi foursome backups, no problems.  I began to stroll this island with my trusty walking stick, or was it a three iron?  I laid my towel on a nice stretch of beach, relaxed and with a deep exhale, let go of all of my stress.  With the white sand glittering in the sunlight and a warm breeze blowing off the water, I had stumbled onto a tropic paradise.

A cart, heavily laden with adult beverages, slowly began to circle me. I watch Shark Week, is this how those feeding frenzies begin?  Well, when in Rome.  Clutching a cold one, I couldn't help but wonder if life could get any better?  Faster than you might say rum for my men, it did.

A woman emerged from the water in a yellow swim suit that revealed a golden tan and a hint of tattoo.  Standing in front of me, she shook her hair to dry, misting me with the cool and refreshing liquid.  Without a word, she sat next to me, took my drink and purred with contentment as the elixir warmed her from within.

My reverie was interrupted by some distant yelling and a cloud burst. "Hey Chip, get out of the sand trap, the sprinklers are coming on. They think by watering them, the sand will grow."

Dripping wet and slightly embarrassed, I asked if I had slept through all eight groups ahead of us on the tee? 

An Invitation to the Blues

An Invitation to the Blues
by Gaming Chip

National Poetry Month is here. The membership has voiced some concerns that this will bring the return of the pot smoking, poorly bathed Frenchmen. They have moved on to Palo Alto Muni, due to our limited wine selection, and will not be present to sing the praises of Jean van de Melt during golf telecasts. So enjoy another episode of Chip.

It was cold, windy and damp,
my head hurt, my wallet was empty, I felt like a tramp.
My exact location was uncertain, my whereabouts unknown,
all that really mattered was my girl had flown.
I was tilted, listing strongly to port,
swinging from a lamp post with no visible support.
I searched my memory analyzing the clues,
clutching her Dear John letter, my invitation to the blues.

It started as it always does,
with a beautiful woman, oh man she was.
A drink, a dinner, a dance,
our savory recipe for a springtime romance.
Lazy Sunday mornings and evenings of dreamy talk,
life was good, what made this girl balk?

Things began to go south during the Masters,
this classic love story became one of my biggest disasters.
We began to make bets, as golfers often will,
she took Rory, and Tiger, while I took the field and Phil.
All the propositions were covered, greenies, polies, Arnies and such,
by the end of the weekend, I owed much.

My offer to square up in trade was met with a rather loud hiss,
how could such a lovely woman treat me like this?
My ego and swagger took a large hit that day,
she didn't want the man, only the pay.
So let this be a lesson to those with a woman to start,
don't bet on golf, and never, ever bet with your heart.

Corkscrews and Sunblock

Corkscrews and Sunblock
by Chips All In

The grill is a different place during the dreaded dark days of sport.  That awful lull between Super Bowl Sunday and March Madness where conversations tend to be superficial and forced.  The networks are to blame.  Winter, infomercials and Ellen rule the airwaves.  Ice dancing and Michael Bolton on every channel.  It is a harrowing time.

It was during this athletic plague, influenza, black lung and pink eye have nothing on Jerry Springer, that I became engaged in a rather lively debate.  Those members, brave enough to endure a sports drought of biblical proportions, began wondering what was golf's most important invention.

A couple of the slap hitters, no names need be mentioned, suggested it was the graphite shaft.  Others chimed in with the usual golf channel nonsense of ball material and rescue clubs.  One non member claimed it was sub fours which summarily got him cut off from the bar.  This question intrigued me. I ordered a double, I am in Mel's good graces, and pushed the issue.

Deeper analysis, as is the wont of an erudite club such as this, provided much more astute answers.  John Jurgins, recently back from a two week Valentine's Day date, claimed golf's most important invention was Viagra.  I pressed John, from a distance in case that four hour window was still active, for a more details.  He said, "After golf and the 19th hole a man needs a reason to go home."  This response got head nods of approval from all in attendance including the two women in the corner watching Oprah.

John Arnot, unimpressed with this answer, said it was sunblock.  Blue Lou offered in with Vodka, and so it went.

To settle this issue, I placed a collect call to the Royal and Ancient for guidance. The answer must lie with Old Tom Morris, so I asked a rather condescending British chap what was in Tom's bag.  He said he carried six clubs, three gutta percha golf balls, a flask and two corkscrews.  Two corkscrews, I asked in astonishment, why two. Somehow he mustered up even more attitude and said, why the front and back nines, of course.

The question remains unanswered, but at least tip off time is near.