Category: Columnists

5-2 AGAINST
By Iso ChIp

It’s poetry month and you are quarantined, how much better does it get.  We here at Chip love an audience, even if it’s held at gun point.  Sit back and enjoy Chip in verse.  

I was shopping during these times of trouble,
happy to escape my shelter-in-place bubble.

Cruising the aisles in sweats and a Titleist Cap,
a most pleasant diversion from television and my next nap.

I was hoping to go unnoticed and blend,
buy my groceries, let the world mend.

My plan was solid, my execution was true,
how could I account for eyes so blue?

Taken by surprise, I was stirred and shaken,
my steady hands caught the eggs, but dropped the bacon.

Her blues sparkled with a come hither hue,
egad boy, don’t do it, don’t start something new.

Fueled by my isolated imagination, I was smitten,
mask and all, I wanted to mitt this kitten.

We were socially six feet apart,
God man, back to back, that’s two shopping carts.

The nuns require only a 12 inch rule,
An additional five feet, man I wish I were back in school.

It’s fourth and two,
go for it, or punt, the dilemma of a love struck fool.

I was pacing the meat department,  awaiting the call,
hoping for a clean snap, don’t fumble the ball.

Where could I take her, not to dinner or a bar,
how gauche take out pizza in my car?

My butcher called the play, “Line plunge on one,”
fly the two yards, win the girl, get it done.

My deli guy yelled, “Go on and get her,”
my soaring leap fell short, as a cart snagged my sweater,

Instead of landing strong and taking her in my arms,
I was knee deep in produce and Lucky Charms.

As constant as this big blue orb is a twirl,
the odds remain  5-2 against Chip getting the girl.

The Lowdown Lockdown Blues
by Essential Chip

Good God Gavin, how do you sleep at night?  I understand, in these troubling times, the governments need to close down movie theaters, the odd Warrior game with attendance over ten, and all Democratic Party gatherings, but golf courses?  What’s next, bars?

I am suddenly feeling very alone in this world.  The Rambo without muscles kind of alone.  It’s a Steve McQueen minus ball and glove in solitary kind of isolation.  I would, of course,  insist on a proper cocktail hour, it is, after all, in the Geneva Convention,  to seek relieve from this unbearable quarantine.  What is a truck driving poet to do?

Rest assured, loyal readers, I am not sitting on my laurels eating bonbons and hoarding toilet paper.  Chip is Essential!   With the help of Bill the Web, I have launched the Chip Pod Cast.  Yes, lucky subscribers, 24 hour Chip access during the duration. Chip for the masses, its time has come.

The format will float from pressing issues of the day to the whims of my fancy. (sound familiar) Topics to include bartering with the grounds crew for twenty minutes of range time,  sand shots over a sleeping wife, and the merits of cutting a hole in your hardwood floor to practice putting.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

This crisis will pass and we will at last return to the golf course, in the meantime tune in to the pod cast and virtually play through.

Young Man’s Game
by Chip Amor

I must confess to you my loyal and discreet readers, of my not so private affair with Lady G.   From what I have heard, (guys talk you know), many of you share an admiration for her as well.  What happened to us?  Is love ‘em and leave ‘em a figment of our past?  Is it because spring and the chubby kid with the arrows is on the wing?  Whatever it is, love is a young man’s sport.

What makes us cling to her so tightly?  Is it our fear of growing older without “game”?    Is it the  forward tees?  “It truly is a head scratcher”, stated Bill Feeley,  “she cost me my hair”.  Hair loss or not, this cold hearted vixen has infiltrated my daily activities.  I now tee up my toothpaste,  drive my remote and vacuum with the grain to insure faster, truer carpets.

I have tried the tested and true methods of our forefathers and caddies before us who quickly learned candy and flowers keep the socks clean and the meals warm.  I tried these with her.  I  plied Miss G. with travel to places like HMB, Pebble, and Torre.  Given her spa days at the Olympic Club followed by nightcaps at the Toppers, all for no avail.  Baubles, of course.

It was on the range that I noticed just how very fickly Lady G. really is.  I had recently purchased the latest Epic Flash driver with the turbo package for her, in efforts to impress.  After a nice thump, I hit one with the roll out to about 240 yards. (probably 220) I flexed my muscles and looked over at her.  She sighed, and shot me a gionconda that would have made Mona Lisa proud.  Her interest in me had waned and was now turned to the kid on the next mat.  He was all flying elbows, screaming duck hooks and NASCAR club head speed.  Every so often, he would launch one beyond the range of my scope.  Everyone knows chicks dig the long ball, Miss G., is no exception. 

I tried to warn him of his pending doom.  Take up full contact karate or skydiving without a parachute, I begged. Bones heal, I told him, but Lady G.’s inevitable heartbreak will not.  When he hit his third one over the back fence, I could see in her eyes that he was to be her next lover.