little bits of bubble plastic
on the living room carpet. I also remove the tags from the new golf bag, as well as the brown paper stuffing in its zipper
pockets.
When you drive in, right after the “Members Only” sign, there’s one reading “Valet Parking Only.” A Mercedes—bus? No, it’s
a huge sedan—and a big BMW are right behind me. It’s like the Berlin Auto Show. My car’s imported, but from a country that
more or less sat out World War II. Also it’s a year old. And leased. Can they tell? Is it okay? Luckily, I’d gone all the
way with the Super Deluxe Package at the car wash a few days before—with carnauba wax and the “New Car” fragrance freshener.
Pulling under the porte cochere, a lad leaps out the front door of the club, starts calling me “sir,” unloads my golf bag,
then speeds off in my car. He has either accepted it for parking or he’s trying to get it off the premises as fast as he can.
I’ve witnessed the latter when someone drives a Ford Fiesta up to the front door of the Beverly Hills Hotel.
Another fellow hustles off—somewhere—with my wife’s clubs. Where is he taking them? I recall the story of valet parking attendants
at a restaurant in Florida who were not affiliated with the restaurant but rather with a stolen car ring. A victim was quoted
in the paper as saying he didn’t give a damn about his car, but his new set of golf clubs was in the trunk.
The guy in the car right behind me happens to be a friend, John, who shows me to the pro shop and starter’s area. “I didn’t
know you played,” he says. “I don’t,” I reply. We pass through the bar, and the liquor looks delicious, and quite necessary,
but we keep moving.
John points out at the course. “I got a hole-in-one right over there,” he says with a laugh. “Yeah, I teed off on that hole
over there and hooked it onto the practice putting green and it went in the hole.” I’m glad to hear it, glad to know my brand
of golf has been seen here before.
Bill, the golf pro, is friendly. He’s just had lasik eye surgery, which he says could take more strokes off my game. (Lasik
Eye Surgery: -3 strokes, that’s a total of minus 62!). A friend suggests I take a lesson from Bill. “He’s great if you’re
at a 9 and want to get to a 3,” my friend says. Sounds good until I realize he’s not talking about going from 9 shots
per hole
to 3 shots per hole—something I’d love to do—but, rather, from a 9
handicap
to a 3.
We meet Dave, the starter, sort of an air traffic controller of the golf course. This course has twenty-seven holes, and I
ask him if he could sort of hide me somewhere out there. But golf is too popular these days for that. He’s giving me a break
just letting me play. If he sizes up a foursome and decides they’ll delay other golfers, he can keep them off the course altogether—and
at this point I’d probably tip him handsomely to do just that.
According to club rules, however, it’s ultimately the members’ duty to have knowledge of “the ability of invited guests …
members are responsible for the conduct, appearance, etiquette, and speed of play of their guests.” Yikes. My friends are
really going out on a limb, bringing me here.
Then, Dave turns to me and says, simply, “Brian will be your caddie.”
Sweet Jesus! A caddie!
I’ve never had a caddie before. Aren’t they all these young guys who are great players and who kind of hold in their guffaws
and then make fun of you later back in the caddie shack? Yes. There’s a course in North Carolina that uses llamas as caddies,
probably because they can’t talk.
I don’t need a caddie. I don’t deserve a caddie. Like Slobodan Milosevic, I don’t want any observers around as witnesses to
my atrocities. In this case, misery does not love company.
But guess what? During prime time on the course, you
must
have a caddie—as a service to you, the golfer, yes, but also to keep
on the living room carpet. I also remove the tags from the new golf bag, as well as the brown paper stuffing in its zipper
pockets.
When you drive in, right after the “Members Only” sign, there’s one reading “Valet Parking Only.” A Mercedes—bus? No, it’s
a huge sedan—and a big BMW are right behind me. It’s like the Berlin Auto Show. My car’s imported, but from a country that
more or less sat out World War II. Also it’s a year old. And leased. Can they tell? Is it okay? Luckily, I’d gone all the
way with the Super Deluxe Package at the car wash a few days before—with carnauba wax and the “New Car” fragrance freshener.
Pulling under the porte cochere, a lad leaps out the front door of the club, starts calling me “sir,” unloads my golf bag,
then speeds off in my car. He has either accepted it for parking or he’s trying to get it off the premises as fast as he can.
I’ve witnessed the latter when someone drives a Ford Fiesta up to the front door of the Beverly Hills Hotel.
Another fellow hustles off—somewhere—with my wife’s clubs. Where is he taking them? I recall the story of valet parking attendants
at a restaurant in Florida who were not affiliated with the restaurant but rather with a stolen car ring. A victim was quoted
in the paper as saying he didn’t give a damn about his car, but his new set of golf clubs was in the trunk.
The guy in the car right behind me happens to be a friend, John, who shows me to the pro shop and starter’s area. “I didn’t
know you played,” he says. “I don’t,” I reply. We pass through the bar, and the liquor looks delicious, and quite necessary,
but we keep moving.
John points out at the course. “I got a hole-in-one right over there,” he says with a laugh. “Yeah, I teed off on that hole
over there and hooked it onto the practice putting green and it went in the hole.” I’m glad to hear it, glad to know my brand
of golf has been seen here before.
Bill, the golf pro, is friendly. He’s just had lasik eye surgery, which he says could take more strokes off my game. (Lasik
Eye Surgery: -3 strokes, that’s a total of minus 62!). A friend suggests I take a lesson from Bill. “He’s great if you’re
at a 9 and want to get to a 3,” my friend says. Sounds good until I realize he’s not talking about going from 9 shots
per hole
to 3 shots per hole—something I’d love to do—but, rather, from a 9
handicap
to a 3.
We meet Dave, the starter, sort of an air traffic controller of the golf course. This course has twenty-seven holes, and I
ask him if he could sort of hide me somewhere out there. But golf is too popular these days for that. He’s giving me a break
just letting me play. If he sizes up a foursome and decides they’ll delay other golfers, he can keep them off the course altogether—and
at this point I’d probably tip him handsomely to do just that.
According to club rules, however, it’s ultimately the members’ duty to have knowledge of “the ability of invited guests …
members are responsible for the conduct, appearance, etiquette, and speed of play of their guests.” Yikes. My friends are
really going out on a limb, bringing me here.
Then, Dave turns to me and says, simply, “Brian will be your caddie.”
Sweet Jesus! A caddie!
I’ve never had a caddie before. Aren’t they all these young guys who are great players and who kind of hold in their guffaws
and then make fun of you later back in the caddie shack? Yes. There’s a course in North Carolina that uses llamas as caddies,
probably because they can’t talk.
I don’t need a caddie. I don’t deserve a caddie. Like Slobodan Milosevic, I don’t want any observers around as witnesses to
my atrocities. In this case, misery does not love company.
But guess what? During prime time on the course, you
must
have a caddie—as a service to you, the golfer, yes, but also to keep
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