Author: Tim Andersen

The King and his Court
by Royal Chip

THE KING HAS FALLEN! This was a recent banner headline of the Los Angeles Times;the Washington Post and The PCGC Website.  It’s true.  The indestructible King of Poplar Creek,Bill Swingin’ Mr, Stevens fell and broke several bones, but not his spirit. Ladders are a young mans game  His Neon Knights, JPrez, The Sons of Civil Servants, Blue Moon Retainer, Touchy Feeley and his many Merry Minions have taken a sacred vodka-cranberry oath  to put all the pieces back together again.

It won’t take long, said Randy G., he is elastic, Strretch Armstrong like, and a sexy grand pa,so Mel tells me.   He is recovering nicely, its in good hands and is accepting all future bets.”

The statesman is a past club president, first rate bowler, multiple club champ and has been the San Mateo Ambassador to golf for what seems a hundred years,’ Said Steve Hildebrant.. Big Al’sbetting combine has Bill’s recovery at better than even odds.  “We at the firm, have taken the bet off the board, as it is a lock.
The King epitomizes the club, Blue Lou Badet would have said if we could have located him.It is rumored that he is either a Moonie out spreading love, flowers and sarcasm at an airportnear you, or a bass guitar player in a 60’s cover band.  Rock on Lou.

It is further believed that the King founded this club as a young man back in 1933.  “We can’t find anyone around here old enough to verify this.  We will check with the Elk’s Club as their membership is even older than ours and ask,  Hopefully they will remember his name, and theirs,” said a spry Bogie
Until this mystery can be solved, The Merry Minions have vowed to raise an hourly toastto Swingin’ Mr. Stevens.   HAIL TO THE KING!

For Mike Bradley

By: Chip

Husband, Father, Brother, Loyal Friend.

Professor, Scientist, Astrologer, Philosopher, Teacher.

Fun, Goofy, Teller of good jokes when he could remember the punch line,

head slapper when he couldn’t.

Cat Lover, Charismatic, Never met anyone he didn’t like, Charming,

Lover of life, Drinker of Vodka and Lemonade, (Yuck) Generous with his Time

and Spirit, Passionate, Connoisseur of Bar Food, Fan of Mel and the Staff,

and, Oh Yeah, a Golfer.

Michael, enjoy the nineteenth hole in Heaven, the first round is on you, buddy.

We miss you, see you soon.

A Priest, A Pro and a Pallbearer
by Trinity Chip

My golf game had gotten so bad, Cheron, the mythological Greek figure charged with ferrying the
newly deceased to the promised land, was waiting for me on the shoreline. He told me in broken
English, (it was a new language in his day) he would row my game out to the lake at Sharp Park
and watch it sink. This is the same lake the Sierra Club shunned. I was at my wits end.

Some philosopher, maybe it was Ernest Hemingway, Jacques Cousteau or Jimmy Buffet
said, “The sea, like golf, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever.”
I needed to fix my game quick, fast and in a hurry. But how? I didn’t know if I was in need of
a priest, a pro or a pallbearer. I was flummoxed.

When in a state of absolute despair, it is human nature to lean on a trusted confidant.
I realized then and there, I had to see my bartender.

Mel was tending over her large Saturday herd when I slumped in.. The boys, JPrez, Walter,
Randy, Bernie and the Professor briefly looked up from their drinks, nodded, and returned to
their lively conversation on the art of falconry. In her infinite wisdom, Mel knew something was
amiss. She set down beer and asked me if I had seen Jeramie or Dana yet? She said she had
only seen me this low when I had the shanks. “I knew it was your game. she said, how can I help?
Give me a shot of hemlock, and I’ll be fine, I said. As I spoke those words, alarms sounded sirens
blared. Bedlam ensued.

Realizing the serious nature of my malady, she sent over the Arties, White and Klien, Levi, and called
Swingin’ Mr. Stevens on her “Mel Phone “, a hot line direct to the King. We had a barstool vigil, complete
with the laying of the hands by Scott Renn, It was reminiscent of a southern tent revival without the gospel
singers, the collections and the oppressive heat. They all gathered to pray for my game’s return,

Dressed in a lime green leisure suit, the Goodwill laughed at and then refused, Bill Feeley gave this heartfelt
homely. “Brothers we must unite and help this poor lost soul find his game, It gives me very little pleasure, well
at lest before the check comes, to take his money every week, I feel like SteveO fleecing Cabo Nick, it’s
not a good feeling. It must stop! We have to help him.”

Mel put two beers in front of me, said we weren’t going anywhere until we fix this thing. By the time I
Ubered home, I’d forgotten what was wrong with my game, why it din’t work, and my name. In the words
of Kevin O’Malley, Mel-therapy works again.

D0DGERS L0SE
By Chip The Comeback Kid

Everyone loves baseball! It is after all, next to complaining, our national pastime.  My journey the last few months was like those unending little league games.  We have all sat through where the umpire was blind in one eye and couldn’t see out of the other. I was that umpire.

I went down hardI had a stroke and a heart attack.  I was behind in the count 0-2 with Clayton Kershaw on the hill.  I rallied. This comeback was fueled by my hatred of the Dodgers but mainly by your many good wishes and prayers.  THANK YOU.  If you combine this with the fact  that I have much more to write about in this column, we knocked him out of the game.  I feel better now and mending nicely.

While at the hospital, my nurses would gather each morning to inquire of the previous night’s uttering,  They all believed me to have over-zealous imagination.  They claimed my midnight ramblings rivaled Hunter S, Thompson and Timothy Leary, and quickly pointed out that  those two guys were loaded, while I was on Tylenol and penicillin . I tried to explain that my PCGC were true.  It wasn’t until  Bill Feely and Keith Gonsalves came to visit that the nurses begin to believe.  The next day three RN’s and one orderly asked me for Cabo Nicks’ phone number.

The stroke did have some lasting effects.  While it left my wit and sarcasm unscathed and as keen as every grammar, sentence structure and spelling all took a hit. What!!  You can’t tell!  This just proves my readership doesn’t care about commas and periods, only that their  names are spelled correctly in the column.  

God Bless you. I can’t wait to get back.