It Is Better To Give

To many of my loyal readers (thanks mom and dad), April is the month of Easter, baseball’s opening day and the Masters golf tournament. It would be remiss of me, the clubs cultural liaison officer, not to mention it is also national poetry month.  So here is a little story of Chip, fate, and a right cross in verse.

It is Better to Give!
by Chip Masters

It happened on a night much like this,
   so gather round boys, it is a story not to miss.
I was at the Grill nursing a post round drink,
   when from across the room I spied a woman giving me “the wink”.
Emboldened by sweet elixir and encourage by her smile,
   I alit from by bar stool blazing a path in the tile.
A simple flip of her hair and a swish of her tail,
   brought this boy to his knees thanking god I was male.
Blond and slender, sexy and sassy,
   never had I seen a more perfect chassis.
Talk turned to sighs, and sighs to action,
   I now began to think of our mutual satisfaction.
My jokes were funny, I had never been so smooth,
   It was time to make my move.

In he came with a crash, a bang, and a thunder,
   this gorilla of a man was after my plunder.
It didn’t take long, just one swipe from his island sized paw,
   a right I think it was, landed square to the jaw.
As I lay there my face bruised and battered,
   my visions of conquest torn and shattered,.
I sat up with my eye plastered in steak,
   I began to hazily pondered my romantic mistakes.
Listen up boys and cut the chatter,
   it is the moral of my story that truly matters.
So take it from me, a man who was handed his lunch,
   it is better to give, than it is to receive, when it comes to a punch.

Next month Chipo De Mayo and the Margarita’s origins

A Drink Proceeds a Story

 It is mankind's bain to reduce great historical figures from giants to dwarfs through omission, the passage of time or the political whims of the day.  Many historicals,  Captain Crunch among them, have had their triumphs, their feats, and lives whittled down to fit on the back of a baseball card.  This month we feature two historically forgotten men who were among golfs first innovators and visionaries helping establish much of what makes this  game great.
 
Saint Patrick and Shamus Mulligan played a $2-2-4 standard muni match every Saturday morning.  Saint Pat was a moderate hitter, that relied on a heavenly hook, he also drove the ducks out of Ireland, while Mulligan was one of the earliest power hitters.  Saint Pat customized his shillelagh (that's an Irish stick) with a graphite shaft and a forged head, while Shamus preferred hickory, cast and a lively wound feathery.  There matches were evenly contested often coming down to the last hole.  St. Patrick knew of Mulligans fear of snakes and would wait until a critical moment before mentioning what just slitthered next to his bag.  Mulligan would flinch, miss the putt and claim a do over was in order.  They would argue about this all night over pints at the 19th hole, another of their innovations, until one night Saint Patrick having enough of this  discussion rid all  Ireland of  snakes.  So if you three putt and get the snake, you have Mulligan to thank.

Golf Poem

In my hand I hold a ball,
white and dimpled, and rather small.
oh, how bland it does appear,
this harmless looking little sphere.

By its size I could not guess
the awesome strength it does possess.
but since I fell beneath its spell,
I've wandered through the fires of hell.

My life has not been quite the same
since I chose to play this stupid game.
It rules my mind for hours on end;
a fortune it has made me spend.

It has made me curse and made me cry,
and hate myself and want to die.
It promises me a thing called par,
if I hit it straight and far.

To master such a tiny ball,
should not be very hard at all,
but my desires the ball refuses,
and does exactly as it chooses.

It hooks and slices, dribbles and dies,
and disappears before my eyes.
Often it will have a whim,
to hit a tree or take a swim.

With miles of grass on which to land,
it finds a tiny patch of sand.
Then has me offering up my soul,
if only it would find the hole.

It's made me whimper like a pup,
and swear that I will give it up,
and take to drink to ease my sorrow,
but the ball knows…. I'll be back tomorrow.

Author Unknown
Found somewhere out on the internet

Golf on the High Holidays

Golf on the High Holidays
Advice by Chip Amor

February is a month of dilemmas for many of our members as they try to fit golf in among the high holidays of the Super Bowl and Saint Valentine's Day.  Many bookies and several spouses feel a sense of entitlement toward these weekends which leaves very little time for the game.  These interlopers can interrupt the hard work that goes into a smooth take away, taint a pure putting stroke or worse, ruin a perfect pour if they are not dealt with quickly.

With a little creative juggling, a dozen roses, a Tom Jones CD (he is very long off the tee), an understanding pro shop, both bookie and spouse can be satisfied.  Here's how.

Play the early line on the Super Bowl and get your bet down before the east coast money changes the odds.  This will give you the option of a later tee time when the course is empty. (Brilliant, that is why this is an advice column)  On Valentino's weekend, play early Saturday and add a bottle of wine to the Tom Jones.  This would be an opportune time to mention to that special someone how you gave up the NBA All Star Game for them because they are that important.

Next month:  St Patty's Day and the match play hangover