Sunday, December 07, 2008
Thus Spaketh The Cart Girl
Haven’t played worth a caddy’s dam’ lately . . .
95 and 91 at Sanctuary, which is just around the corner and I can go walk on, and walk on, both, if you see what I mean . . .
86 and 87 at Cave Creek . . . which is cheaper, and walk-on-able, both-ways, too . . .
And nuthin’ worth bloggin’ either . . . which makes it double-disgustin . . .
Mainly from playing irregularly, averaging once-a-week. . . too many moving parts in my swing to keep in order without regular practice . . . especially the short game . . . I think of myself as a good putter, but that’s mainly a positive-thinking thingy, if you know what I mean . . . the truth is I’m a streaky putter . . . sometimes I can make everything I look at, but sometimes, nuthin’ . . .
So now I’m rusty, and that streakiness is exacerbated . . . but I feel like I could just roll out of bed and hit my driver now . . . with no warm up, I toe-pushed a solid hit up the right side on #1 so that I had less than 70 yds – close enuff to 300 yd drive that it doedn’t matter, but I left my half wedge short, chipped uphill 5 ft away, then lipped out (270) the par putt . . . like when I missed a 4ft birdie on that hole 2 or 3 times ago . . . it just tells me I’m in trouble.
On #2 I pulled my drive into the trees on the left, but only 210 out . . . but those tees were up 30 yds or so . . . I hit a 5 wood since it was against the wind, off the hardpan, my foot balanced on a tree root, straight at the hole, but came up short, plugged in the bunker. Exploded that ball about 30 ft in the air, 8 ft short of the hole, which was in a hole scalloped out of a mound in the middle of the green . . . what a pin placement . . . then I lipped out another 270 for birdie . . . I knew I was cooked, then for sure, but I manfully plodded on to finish the round . . . just figgering that I might make an eagle on one of the par 5s . . . but I didn’t: foozled a 3wood on #6; got a bad bounce on #12, down into the trash on the left; overcooked a faded 3wood on #16, into the water . . . sigh . . .
On the #15 tee while we waited we chatted with Patty, the cart girl – the sexiest grandma I ever met personally -- in the summer she dresses like a teenager, and, if I can say so without verging into the creepy, she has the body for it, great legs . . . B^). . . she entertained us by playing with the duck pair that waddled up . . . she gives them cracker bits; she teases them, shows the crackers while raising and lowering her arm til the hen got in synch with her, flapping her wings gently till she took off head high, the back down to the ground . . . we were all delighted with their rapport . . . all the while she talked about the birds on the golf course . . . “You (the hen) haven’t got a very nice mate this year!” . . . he wouldn’t fly like the hen, just waited until the hen got a cracker and then horned in on the feed . . . “The geese mate for life, but the ducks take a new mate each year, and this year’s isn’t as nice as usual.’
When I expressed some amazement at the depths of her audubonic observations, she said, “Oh, I get to know all the birds out here, the red-tailed hawks, the geese, the ducks, the grackles – which p
eople out here call crows, but they’re not. Grackles are really smart, but they’re very mean . . they will break other birds’ eggs just to break ‘em, not to eat ‘em“ (Which she said so matter-of-factly, I realized she had acheived true scientific objectivity . . . Mrs. Cactus loves birds and critters, but she recoils from Nature Red In Tooth & Claw). “Yeah, Grackles are smart but evil . . . but this is something I have seen often with animals: that intelligence leads to evil!”
With that, she drove off, leaving me – I don’t know about my 3 playing partners – chastened in the arrogant adoration of my own intelligence – ornithology & philosophy from the cart girl -- 8^D
95 and 91 at Sanctuary, which is just around the corner and I can go walk on, and walk on, both, if you see what I mean . . .
86 and 87 at Cave Creek . . . which is cheaper, and walk-on-able, both-ways, too . . .
And nuthin’ worth bloggin’ either . . . which makes it double-disgustin . . .
Mainly from playing irregularly, averaging once-a-week. . . too many moving parts in my swing to keep in order without regular practice . . . especially the short game . . . I think of myself as a good putter, but that’s mainly a positive-thinking thingy, if you know what I mean . . . the truth is I’m a streaky putter . . . sometimes I can make everything I look at, but sometimes, nuthin’ . . .
So now I’m rusty, and that streakiness is exacerbated . . . but I feel like I could just roll out of bed and hit my driver now . . . with no warm up, I toe-pushed a solid hit up the right side on #1 so that I had less than 70 yds – close enuff to 300 yd drive that it doedn’t matter, but I left my half wedge short, chipped uphill 5 ft away, then lipped out (270) the par putt . . . like when I missed a 4ft birdie on that hole 2 or 3 times ago . . . it just tells me I’m in trouble.
On #2 I pulled my drive into the trees on the left, but only 210 out . . . but those tees were up 30 yds or so . . . I hit a 5 wood since it was against the wind, off the hardpan, my foot balanced on a tree root, straight at the hole, but came up short, plugged in the bunker. Exploded that ball about 30 ft in the air, 8 ft short of the hole, which was in a hole scalloped out of a mound in the middle of the green . . . what a pin placement . . . then I lipped out another 270 for birdie . . . I knew I was cooked, then for sure, but I manfully plodded on to finish the round . . . just figgering that I might make an eagle on one of the par 5s . . . but I didn’t: foozled a 3wood on #6; got a bad bounce on #12, down into the trash on the left; overcooked a faded 3wood on #16, into the water . . . sigh . . .
On the #15 tee while we waited we chatted with Patty, the cart girl – the sexiest grandma I ever met personally -- in the summer she dresses like a teenager, and, if I can say so without verging into the creepy, she has the body for it, great legs . . . B^). . . she entertained us by playing with the duck pair that waddled up . . . she gives them cracker bits; she teases them, shows the crackers while raising and lowering her arm til the hen got in synch with her, flapping her wings gently till she took off head high, the back down to the ground . . . we were all delighted with their rapport . . . all the while she talked about the birds on the golf course . . . “You (the hen) haven’t got a very nice mate this year!” . . . he wouldn’t fly like the hen, just waited until the hen got a cracker and then horned in on the feed . . . “The geese mate for life, but the ducks take a new mate each year, and this year’s isn’t as nice as usual.’
When I expressed some amazement at the depths of her audubonic observations, she said, “Oh, I get to know all the birds out here, the red-tailed hawks, the geese, the ducks, the grackles – which p
eople out here call crows, but they’re not. Grackles are really smart, but they’re very mean . . they will break other birds’ eggs just to break ‘em, not to eat ‘em“ (Which she said so matter-of-factly, I realized she had acheived true scientific objectivity . . . Mrs. Cactus loves birds and critters, but she recoils from Nature Red In Tooth & Claw). “Yeah, Grackles are smart but evil . . . but this is something I have seen often with animals: that intelligence leads to evil!”With that, she drove off, leaving me – I don’t know about my 3 playing partners – chastened in the arrogant adoration of my own intelligence – ornithology & philosophy from the cart girl -- 8^D
