Category: Columnists

The Meaning of Golf
by Chip Monk

I was recently immersed in a spiritual quest for the meaning of golf.  A personal hadj for a lower handicap and golf enlightenment.  This sojourn to cleanse my game of impure swing thoughts, day dreams of cart girls, and half wedge shanks, took place at Olympic's Lake Course.  This, the Mount Parnassus of golf courses, was the site of my clarity.

My journey of less strokes began like it must, with inner calm and an all star foursome. Randy G, Blue Moon Retainer, and Fred "Where have you been" Chiappe made up the group.  It was a Zen meets Poplar Creek, Bonnie meets Clyde golf awakening.  We played the round with an intense casualness rivaled only by Don Delbon's cool and Geoff Kuchlenz's hair. It was Nirvana.

As I trekked up the hill to the clubhouse it hit me.  I was no where closer to the meaning of golf then when I started.  What was this game all about?  Was golf about having fun, gambling or maybe the struggle?  I was flummoxed.  What was I missing?

Golf should be fun and perfection unobtainable, right?  I pondered this long and hard. My reverie was interrupted only by the waiter handing me a rather sizeable bar tab. I overtipped, signed Keith Gonsalves' name, I am not a member, and looked down upon the 18th green. There is was, written in the sand, the answer to the mysterious grip golf holds on all of us.  In plain sight, for all to see, the bunkers spell out I.O.U.

Poplar World Cup
by Global Chip

The balance of golf power is teetering on the edge. While most eyes are focused on the Ryder Cup and the possibility of two more years of European domination, I believe we need to take a more global approach to return the muni golfer to prominence. The Poplar World Cup! Instead of inviting Rory, Phil, and Tiger, we invite the world leaders to San Mateo for a match play tournament. Winner take all.

Heading up the world team would be Captain Fidel Castro. This is a demotion for the general, but what has he done for us since the Bay of Pigs? The home team would be lead by the former private Bill "Touchy" Feeley. "I have a few tricks up my sleeve, just wait until Fidel finds out he can't smoke indoors," said Bill. Noted Irishman, Ross Madigan believes Fidel will have severe match up problems. "Who's that commie going to put in a cart together, Israel and Syria? North Korea and China? Then he's got to counter a team of Swingin' Mr. Stevens and Blue Lou, I would rather face the deficit problem. Wait until they hear the way we mangle names over the P.A. International incident or Captain Feeley at his best?"

Each match will be played for some sort of stake. For example, Blue Moon Retainer might be playing Vlad Putin for nuclear disarmament, Sonic Sid for world peace and Baby Doll for wrinkle free slacks. "I believe we will beat these guys back into the stone age where they came from. I'm so confident, I will keep my secret weapon, Mel on the bench.

The Countdown
By Chip in Time

We began the countdown, like most Saturdays, at ten minutes till nine.  The Grill was three deep.  The members were in their usual fine voice and lively spirit.  It has become our custom to refrain from anything stronger than gin until the established drinking hour of five o'clock. Confused?  Let the words of noted Irishman Ross Madigan help you sort things out, "Algiers is a sunny seven hours ahead of us. That would make the local time ten minutes till four.  That leaves us one hour short unless they are on Day Light Savings time or something.  We err on the side of caution."

It was about three minutes before the bewitching hour when a striking woman with a microphone entered. She sat down, crossed her legs, then asked me a most peculiar question, "Do you carry a seven wood?"  A gasp befell the merrymakers marking time, as this was a clear assault on my manhood.  I was insulted.  This was a kin to asking me if I needed Viagra and a magazine!  Sitting next to me, sipping on something he called a warm up, John Jurgins just smiled.

I was dumbfounded. I needed a quick, well thought out response, but first I had to think.  Would it help my game?  Had I lost that much distance on my irons?  What had she heard?  Were guys talking out of school?  Finally with a sweaty brow I said, "No, not normally or without the consent of my pro, but with you, I would probably need it."  Satisfied with this answer, she lowered the microphone and joined in on the countdown.  After a few "nods" to the clock, she left on John's arm.

I was flummoxed, what was that all about?  Was she just another jealous journalist looking for an angle or did I have golf club envy?  I guess only time will tell.

By the way, John called from her place four hours later wondering what kind of cigarettes do they smoke in Algiers?