Category Archives: golf

Hot Coffee, Stained Pants and Skin Grafts

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My dad’s coffee gave me the jitters.

Earl was 70 years old when had his first latte.

“Betty, you ever had one of them double Lah..Tays!?”  Betty is my sister (and from Seattle – the latte capital of the world) and it was more of a statement to her than a question.  “It’s the best thing I’ve ever had.  One of the guys bought me one on the way to the golf course today.  I like them!  You ever had one?”   He was off and running before she could answer.  “You ever watched Meerkat Manor?  It’s about these animals that stand up on their back legs and look at stuff.  It’s my favorite show.  Speaking of animals the democrats are ruining our country.  Did you watch the Mariners last night?  They lost again.  Can’t hit to right field.  I played  terrible golf today.  Couldn’t see the ball.  Couldn’t care less.  It was a great round.  Hey, have you ever had a  double Lah..Tay before?”

Earl had never mainlined coffee and I can only imagine that the heavens must have opened for him and he saw salvation on every street corner with a drive-through.   Folgers was the gateway drug into a pure, undefiled, caffeinated woop-woop, heck, I’m going to live forever,  look out, Earl is on the loose feeling!  If his ADHD was bad on Folgers, it was on afterburners when he was on the good stuff.  His crash that evening must have been epic – like taking Nyquil with a whiskey chaser.

As a child I never really understood my dad’s love affair with coffee, but from my earliest years I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t working through at least one cup and hollering at my mom for a refill when it was empty.  Heck, there were times he didn’t even holler, just raised the cup above the daily paper and shook it back and forth like a beggar shaking his tin cup at passersby and my mom, in her beaten down exasperation, always got up and refilled his cup.  At the time it seemed normal, but now I wonder why she didn’t pour it over his head.  I guess it was always so much easier to do what he demanded than to fight with him about it.

NB: When I was a teenager I turned agreeing with Earl into an art form.  I could agree with him in such a way that it would give him apoplectic fits.  When he berated me for my lack of motivation and told me I would amount to nothing better than a ditch digger (the epitome of the lowest of the low), I would tell him in my best Disney voice that if that happened I would be the best darn ditch digger I could be.  Combine that insolence with my innocent expression and hand motions and I could bring him to the brink of violence in a heartbeat. 

In reality I was petrified of Earl’s coffee.  I know it may seem odd to be afraid of coffee, but I had seen what it could do and wouldn’t come near it after mom set it next to him.  In her hands it was safe.  In his hands it was a liquid hand grenade in a cup.  It was a hot blue mug of steaming nitroglycerin ready to explode at the smallest provocation and my dad was always that provocation.

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Earl had ADHD before anyone even knew what ADHD was and I lived in constant fear that his searing hot coffee would engulf me in a tsunami of brownness and scald me over 90 percent of my body.  He wasn’t one of those burn-your-kids-on-purpose kind of dads, but his distraction drove me to be very attentive whenever there was coffee around and especially when we were in the car.

Drinking while driving was one of the monkeys that my dad was never able to get off his back.  But that monkey had nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with coffee.  The family’s AMC Jeep Wagoneer was a marvel of American ingenuity in every way but one – it had no cup holders.  It could climb a waterfall of ice in winter, carry enough gear to outfit an entire baseball league, and haul the carcasses of six dead deer and one Christmas tree all at the same time, but it lacked that one very important feature. And, if anyone on this planet could have used a cup holder, it was Earl.

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Driving anywhere with my dad was an adventure, but heading to a baseball game always brought his frenzy to a different level.  He would open the driver’s door and throw in his Thermos, shattering the insides like a Christmas ornament (he purchased the glass inserts by the gross), jump in beside it and set his cup of molten lava onto the expansive dashboard.  I usually offered to hold the cup for him (against my better judgement), but he would always bluster about me worrying too much and slap my hands back as I reached for it.

To say that my dad liked his coffee hot would be a gross misunderstanding of the word hot.  If the coffee in his cup wasn’t the temperature just below the point where water turns from a liquid into a gas, he would dump it out and have mom get him a new one.  And it was this boiling hot cup of pumice that he would set on the dash.

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As soon as his butt hit the seat he would go into the Wagoneer starting routine.  His arms and legs were a blur of motion as he mashed the gas pedal repeatedly, yanked the choke and turned the key back and forth countless times until the engine roared to life. He would instantly jam the Jeep into gear with his foot still on the throttle so it wouldn’t stall, all thoughts of the cup gone from his mind.

The mug would hiss as it slid across the dash.  Earl would slam on the brakes and stab at it like he was wearing boxing gloves and the coffee would spray over everything and everyone like Vesuvius burying Pompeii.  I had mastered the art of making myself really small, hugging my legs to my chest, but I was rarely spared and still have the scars on my arms and legs to prove it.

I was convinced that my dad had no feeling on the tops of his legs.  He would cuss and swear at us for spilling his coffee, but he did nothing about cleaning himself up and seemed to enjoy the feeling of having hot coffee running down his leg into his boots. I’ve had an aversion to wearing wet clothes ever since and looking at his pants clinging to his chicken legs made my skin crawl, but he would just turn on the heater and go his merry way.

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This always led to another problem. So much coffee had been spilled into the defroster that the green dash had a brown sheen and whenever we turned the blower on (which was every time we went anywhere), brown cumulonimbus thunderheads spewed forth turning the car into a full-bodied Nescafe rainforest.  Driving in that car felt like sitting in a sauna where someone had poured old coffee over the hot rocks and then forced you to sit in it your entire childhood.

Old people at my dad’s baseball games used to love me, not because I was particularly lovable, but because after riding in the Wagoneer I smelled so much like a cup of hot Sanka.  They would hug me and linger just a bit too long for my comfort, sniffing all the time like an old dog at a carpet stain.

Earl coached baseball for over 25 years, mostly, I think, because of the free coffee he got at the ball park.  It was hot, like it had been plumbed from the depths of Hades and it was to be had in abundance.  (I tried their hot chocolate once and I was saddled with a speech impediment until the scab finally peeled off my tongue.)  He had fourteen kids on his team, nine of them for the field, four as back-ups, and one as the coffee runner.  I know that on at least one occasion the coffee runner peed in his Thermos.  I’m not sure at what point my dad realized it was tainted and I was never brave enough to ask.

Twenty years after leaving Alaska he had that first latte.  A continuous diet of antacids helped him stomach the reconstituted freeze dried crystals he drank for so many years and that first taste of liquid heaven in a paper cup must have been an epiphany because the next day he bought himself his very own espresso machine.

Let’s just say his level of awareness stayed the same, but his level of awakeness went through the roof.   I’m just glad that his friend hadn’t bought him a Red Bull on the way to golf.  I don’t think his family could have taken it.

These Are Not the Clubs You’re Looking For

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“They’re for sale if you want them.”    (Ben Kenobi)

I once had a 50 yard drive with one of my clubs, and, by one of my clubs, I mean one of my clubs actually flew 50 yards.  I stood there for a minute looking at the ball still sitting serenely on my tee and asked the guys if they minded if I put the ball where my club lay 50 yards away in the middle of the fairway and hit from there.  It was my best drive of the day.  It’s not like I’m a terrible golfer and I never throw a club in anger (break them across my knee on occasion, but never throw them), it’s just that I’m way too cheap to buy nice clubs (or new grips) and so I often find myself in these awkward situations on the course.

Don’t get me wrong – I would love a new set of clubs, but the Dream Crusher has this crazy idea that the kids need to eat and so we (meaning her) have always chosen food for the kids over new golf clubs for me.   Maybe in a few years when we finally decide to cut the cord I’ll be able to buy a new set of clubs, but until we do, I’m stuck with having to cobble together a set of clubs from the area pawn shops and the drug dealers.  Maybe that’s an exaggeration, but not by much since I often feel like the addict venturing into the inner city to try and score a hit without spending a fortune doing it.   “Hey buddy, wanna buy a wedge?”

Maybe I’m so bad at golf because I have never bought a new club and  have only purchased other people’s rejects out of the “used and abused” bins at Goodwill.  For me it’s like walking into the Humane Society and seeing all those sad faces staring at me and knowing that I will be walking out with the St Bernard- Dachshund mix that nobody wants.

To say that my bag is filled with rejects from the land of misfit toys would be an understatement.  It is stuffed with every infomercial reject known to the golfing world and looks like something that the Vietcong would use to make man traps.  My clubs are all different lengths and they stick out at odd angles because my bag has lost its shape. Many of the clubs don’t reach the bottom when I shove them in after a shot and two or three are always sticking out above the cart and in danger of being ripped of by low hanging limbs.

The real problem is that I’m a sucker for new innovations, but am relegated to old technology with awesome sounding names that make you think that the next swing will launch a gargantuan drive.  I want space tourism, but am stuck with Apollo 1 technology (burned up on the launch pad).  I want a Ferrari, but have to settle for a Desoto (defunct).   My clubs are like a testament to all that’s wrong with golf and the history of trying to hit a little white ball straight.

My golf bag does ooze with chest thumping masculinity and virility though.  When I pull clubs named Burner, Tornado, Big Fire, Launcher, Blaze, Jumbo and Krank out of my bag I feel like I’m about to drive the ball 600 yards using a member of the WWF.  Is it any wonder my sphincter tightens and I tense up like a hammer thrower about to launch a 50 pound weight down the field with the force of a canon every time I address the ball?

NB: Did you know that a whiff actually counts as a stroke and hurts worse than getting hit by a linebacker?  There is something very humbling in trying to explain to the wife why I can’t mow the yard because I hurt myself playing golf.  She’s educated and so I haven’t been able to convince  her that golf is actually a contact sport and that I hurt my back when the guy in my cart clipped me from behind during my follow through.

Someone once said that golf is like a walk in the park spoiled by a little white ball.  This is the stupidest saying I’ve ever heard.  Golf has never been a walk in the park. It has always been an instrument of torture that slices open your soul to reveal the shriveled black thing you used to call a heart.  It breaks down every semblance of pride you have ever had and makes you scream like a little girl and the worst part of it is that you pay to inflict it upon yourself.

But, like an addict, I keep coming back time after time to inflict the pain on myself again and again.  I guess I’m like a cutter.

I am convinced, however, that the pain would stop if I had brand new clubs.  My clubs are fine I guess, but they are not good for me.   I think my next set of clubs will have zen like names.  Maybe names that kids would call their ponies or kittens.  They will have names like “Fluffy” and “Smooth” and “Easy.”  They will be all the same brand and length and will nestle into their own fur-lined grooves in a leather cart bag.  Golf will bring peace and tranquility to my life.

…But really, where’s the fun in that?

However, I did bring the entire group of clubs in my post to the pound.