Charity Begins at Home . . . So Stay There
If you're looking for a treat, play in a charity golf outing. Or have
a root canal. The pain is similar. Do yourself a favor, write a check,
make a donation and stay home. You will feel good about giving to a
good cause. Not to mention a chance to give your worst enemy the
privilege of playing in your place.
My wife and I played in a charity outing recently. It was a bonanza
for the charity -- I've never seen so many corporate sponsors. The
urinals had logos. My insurance agent sponsored a ball washer. The
divots had endorsements.
More than 200 golfers turned out -- the mob overflowed the 36 hole
venue. The long line of golf carts at the practice green looked like a
convoy ready to invade Baghdad.
We played with a fellow who happily admitted (as we shook hands) that
he hadn't played golf for eleven years. "Isn't that special?" I
thought. "And he's all ours for five or six hours. Shoot me. Kick me.
Stomp me."
His wife was more of a treat (all of this is true). She clutched the
end of the club with her left hand, slid her right hand down to the
steel shaft, and addressed the ball sideways -- facing the fairway. It
was like watching Wayne Gretsky cross the blue line for an open shot
at the net. A tee shot that went 50 yards made me want to yell,
"Icing!" The Golf Channel couldn't solve her problems with a panel of
the entire Harmon family.
The shotgun start began at 7:15 in the morning. I estimated we'd need
a lantern to finish.
The event was a scramble. Each player hits a tee shot, you select the
best one and everyone plays a second shot from that point and so on
until a putt is holed. The winning team usually makes birdies galore
and winds up with a score of 59 or less. We were still on the front
nine when we passed 59. Our chance of winning a skill prize was as
good as Ted Williams' chance of hitting .400 when they thaw him out.
I would have paid to be somewhere else. Anywhere. A foreign country. A
different planet. My mind wandered, I searched for the slightest sign
of on-course amusement.
Fortunately, there were more diversions than Disney World. A
photographer at the 2nd tee, asked us to line up for a foursome
photograph -- a fond memory to hang in the powder room for
inspiration. I said, "No thanks, we pass." The camera man insisted. I
caved in. He posed me next to the hockey player, and said, "Smile." I
beamed.
He asked for our e-mail address. I wrote anonymous@aol.com.
At the 6th hole, we took three shots to reach the long drive sign --
for ladies. The sign was in the fairway, we were in the rough. I
chortled, "Gee, the woman who hit that one must have a new titanium
driver." The hockey player said, "Maybe I should think about getting
one." My wife slapped her hand over my mouth and glared, "Don't you
dare go there!"
Along the way we came to a table where two ladies offered to sell us
raffle tickets -- ten dollars for one, three for twenty dollars. I'm
not the luckiest person in the world, I bet on Germany in both wars.
Besides, I wasn't eager to peel off a twenty. I didn't have the
faintest idea what the prizes were. I came up with an ace-in-the-hole
excuse: "We thought we'd wait until we finish and buy tickets then."
They didn't go for it. "We're going to close the raffle in 30
minutes," one of the ladies explained, "so you have to buy your
tickets now." I know when I've been had, I forked over a crisp, new
twenty. By the way, have you noticed the picture on the new twenty
dollar bill? It's supposed to be Andrew Jackson, but it looks more
like Peter Gammons of ESPN's Baseball Tonight show.
The par-3, 12th hole offered the big skill-shot prize of the day -- a
new car for a hole-in-one. I'm not sure if it was a Cadillac or a
Volkswagen. It was on display next to the green and I could have paid
attention because the hockey player's third shot rolled under it.
Somebody won the car, but we weren't around for the traditional
hole-in-one free drink. More about our quick getaway in a moment.
First, let's finish the round.
At the 17th, a long par-5, a muscle-bound ape with forearms like
bowling pins met us at the tee. He introduced himself as a long-drive
champion of some sort. Figuring he was after another donation, I
pulled my pockets inside out and gave him the palms-up sign so he
could see I was tapped out. But he went through his spiel anyway:
"For a twenty dollar charitable contribution," he began, "I will hit a
drive and you can play the ball. I guarantee it will wind up within
125 yards of this 528 yard hole. You'll a great chance to make an
eagle."
I paused to consider the offer......okay, thanks, but no thanks. We
can finish dead last by ourselves, without a fifth partner. Why louse
up a sure thing?
Popeye wouldn't give up, "No one goes away a loser. Even if my drive
doesn't help you win a skill prize, I will give you twenty dollars in
Hooters coupons."
Skill prize was the last phrase our group expected to be associated
with. The Hooters certificates were enticing, but twenty bucks buys,
at the most, four beers -- not the entire keg it would take to erase
the day.
At the end, we walked off the 18th green and found ourselves in the
middle of a cookout. A chef was busy tending a huge barbecue, a
spatula in each hand, deftly flipping and maneuvering hot, juicy
hamburgers across the grill. It was like watching a musician play the
vibes. His assistant put a dried piece of meat on our plates. It was
cooked until it looked like a hockey puck. Our playing partner eyed
it, excitedly. I asked to exchange my meat for a juicer burger from
the front of the grill, but was told "those aren't done." We were
urged us to move along toward the coleslaw.
It's amazing what a couple hours of blazing Arizona sun does to
coleslaw. The mayonnaise tends to bubble like lava in a volcano. It
was ready to erupt. Have you ever seen coleslaw gurgle? We decided to
pass on the food, check the raffle winners on the big board, and
scram.
One of our tickets, number 807947, was a winner. The board said,
"807947 - DVD." My wife was elated. She said it would be nice to have
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