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A whole lot of years ago I recall seeing a short cartoon on some wacky late night show where a small child was wandering lost in a dangerous urban setting. The child was sobbing while lecherous bums laughed and leered at the lad from either side of the street. The bums close in, pointing and poking at the boy when the kid’s guardian angel shows up and blocks their jabs using his golden halo - and all the while manages to talk some sense into the bums. Then, in an instant and out of nowhere, an evil Castro look-alike dude in army fatigues appears with a flame-thrower. He fries everyone to a crisp - the angel, the boy, the bums - and walks off with the golden halo which had fallen to the street like a giant coin.

For some reason, that animated short has, unfortunately, stuck with me for over two decades.

I’ve got a friend who has worked tirelessly on the board of directors for a cancer support foundation called Angel on My Shoulder. He is instrumental in organizing a golf fundraiser called The Angel Golf Spectacular at the St. Germain Golf Course in Wisconsin’s north woods. This year they raised over $100,000 during The 10^th annual Spectacular that was held June 9^th. The money goes to help folks dealing with cancer in their families. But for Bruce, this was his first Spectacular with the knowledge that he, too, at the age of 51, now had cancer.

Advanced metastatic prostate cancer. It had spread; lymph nodes and bones. Not good.

He found out in September of 2005. His first doctor said he had three months to a year to live. Bruce owns a beverage company known mostly for its Jolly Good Soda; they are the folks who “put the pop in Wisconsin.” He has always been the type of owner you’d find in the plant, in jeans and work boots and a hairnet. As one might expect from someone who would dare to sell soda in a Coke and Pepsi universe, he has refused to wilt in the face of the doctor’s death sentence. He trekked to a renowned cancer research center in Houston; rolled up his sleeves, did a lot of research, and along with some brilliant but far from liable doctors, decided on an aggressive but risky experimental treatment that ravages ones blood. Thus far, it has stabilized the cancer; at least to the point where he feels he has added a few more years to the forecast of his first doctor.

Bruce had asked me to play with him in The Spectacular in the past, but the event has always conflicted with US Amateur Public Links qualifying - an event I haven’t missed in 12 years. And so I had never played in The Spectacular. When he said, “I’d like to win it this year, or not play at all,” I felt differently about his invite.

“Sure,” I said. Bruce also asked if I could find another player to bring 4 ½ hours north who might give us a chance to win a charity event that really isn’t, or shouldn’t be, all that much about winning. But winning The Spectacular, just once, was what Bruce wanted to do. And there was a point that he wanted to make in doing so.

I sent out an S.O.S. and found a buddy, “Nick,” who, along with “Freddy” a mutual friend of Bruce’s and mine (and happens to be a cancer survivor ten years running) we had our team…and a mission. The mission was to win, for Bruce. And to win…we’d have to beat Reba.

Reba Maybe is her name. Every year she gathers up a team of assassins (including a reinstated mini-tour player) and takes all the prizes at The Spectacular. Reba is a former stand-out golfer for the Wisconsin Badgers. She is from Minoqua, near St. Germain, and so we’d be taking on Reba and her band of marauders on their home turf. It wouldn’t be easy - we were no doubt “weaker on paper.” But, as they say, “they don’t play games on paper.”

When Nick and I rode up together, I told him what I knew. Nick is a tall, unmarried Italian pushing 50 with a lady-killer’s wandering eye; he was quite intrigued by the legend of Reba. The morning of the event, he patrolled the putting green, the range and the abutting parking lot hoping to get a glimpse of the great woman. “Where’s Reba?” was a question heard frequently wafting from the various pockets of the nearly 200 golfers milling about. Then, as the sun found a gap between the gigantic spires of pines standing sentry to the course's entry, a glistening white Jeep Cherokee detailed with pinstripes and the NY Yankees logo on each door entered the parking lot like a ghostly chariot. Heads turned, volunteers, staff and golfers stopped talking and contagious smiles ran the gamut. The magnitude of the event went up a couple notches.

Nick caught a side view of her through the driver’s side window of her Yank-mobile. He said, “The gal looks like she might be kinda cute.” Nick was a sucker for a pony tail through a ball cap. But then, seriously, who isn’t?

Bruce had hoped if we could somehow pull off a victory, we would all then offer our prizes back to the Angel foundation. We would demonstrate the spirit of the event through our example and help raise even more money for The Angel on My Shoulder Foundation. We all agreed it was a no brainer.

But we had some hurdles. Bruce was, at best, a 25 handicapper. Freddy was an 8 or 9 and Nick was perhaps a 5 or 6. But all three were gamers. This was a mission where you could, as they say, “throw the numbers out the window.” Me, I’m around a one - but that’s because I generally play like a plus three and a minus nine within any given round. Flashes of brilliance sandwiched between the moldy bread of inconsistency. Was I better than Reba? Maybe…but she knew this golf course as well as she knew the impact of her own Rock Star status in The Northwoods. She knew golf pressure, she knew Big Ten pressure, and more importantly, she knew Angel pressure.

We were “city folk” in the eyes of the Northerners and friendly vacation-land locals who had gathered for this most noble cause. The woods and the darkness that lined every fairway were deemed by us “slickers” as “The Lyme Disease.” It was a scramble format; we were swinging from the heels; that’s what you do in scrambles, and so we left some eggs in the deepest recesses of The Lyme Disease. We felt those balls would be a just reward for those with balls enough to take on the jungle on future recon missions. We had a purpose, and the purpose wasn’t no stinking Easter egg hunt in a forest full of ticks.

As one might expect, we got off slowly. The cool wind was up; our putting was off, our nerves jangled as our spirit was challenged. We accumulated a few pars, and in scrambles, pars are known as bogies. In The Spectacular you play in eight-somes, the group we were paired with, The Eliasons, was one of the favorites besides Reba’s group. The Eliason family owns Timber Ridge, one of the best courses in The Northwoods. One of the sons played for Wisconsin in college, his brother was okay, but their seventy-something dad was a beauty. He could hit the ball maybe 140 yards tops…but on the greens he was a putting savant who put on a show worth charging admission. They also had a low-key mystery man in wrap-around shades who rarely spoke. The guy made a secret service agent seem like a male cheerleader. The Eliason team was killing us after nine holes.

But we kept at it. We had all come a long way. I’ve known each fella for over a half century cumulatively, and I knew they would not lay down, that they knew no other way. We birdied eight of the last nine holes. The highlight, easily, was the hole where Bruce made a final putt using a mulligan he had paid for earlier. It was almost a holy moment when he announced his intention and buried the putt as if God had whispered in his ear that there was nothing to fear. The one birdie we didn’t get was after Nick had hit a wedge to eight feet on 17. It was deflating. Still, our back nine effort was enough to pass the Eliason’s who may have been victimized by “Angel Pressure.” When the last birdie putt went in on our 18^th hole, we assumed we came up a bit short since Reba’s group had shouted their position to the Eliasons a few holes earlier. (We were basically Bruce and the unknown out-of-towners.) But Reba’s group, in good fun I suppose, had lied.

The Hainer, Freddy, Nick and Bruce with their winnings

The truth was, we tied for the title and won in a playoff. No reason to belabor the details. We won. Despite our coughing start, we kept smashing our balls toward the hole and with a lot of laughs along the way, we got it done.

At the banquet that night we offered our prizes (pro shop credit) back to the Angel Foundation. They were impressed by the offer, and announced it to the crowd. Apparently, that’s the only point they wanted to make. They said the charity auction was already set, that with all the extravagant items they had to auction off, our $400 in pro shop credit would take up time Reba and Bruce

required for items that would, we found out, net thousands of dollars each. So we kept our prizes. Bruce had made his point, subtly, and with class, but to make it he needed first to win. For Freddy, Nick and me, the canyon-wide smile of a champion on Bruce’s face that evening was the real prize.

Austin DeGroot is a radiant nine year old boy. He has Leukemia. Banquet master of ceremonies "Vince" and Austin

Stephanie Klett, a former Miss Wisconsin turned television host introduced Austin to the crowd. The boy joked about hanging out with, and reportedly out-eating special Angel celebrity Gilbert Brown at breakfast earlier that day. Around his neck was a beaded necklace. Prompted by Stephanie, he explained how each bead represented a medical procedure, bone marrow transplant, spinal tap, sedation etc…

As he listed off what the beads represented, the crowd winced and nearly wept. There was the collective silence of shared aching when the young boy finished. Stephanie took the mike back. “You should know that Austin has three of these necklaces.” Everyone in the banquet hall sagged a bit and no doubt found themselves prayerfully grateful for the health of their loved ones - or thought of those in their own lives who have fought, or fight daily, the perils of cancer. So painful is such clarity when it is visited upon one so young and brought before you.

We were snapped back to reality when the lights went down and Ms. Klett announced that Austin would like to sing a song for us. “Sweet,” I thought, expecting maybe “Michael row Your Boat Ashore” or something else a nine year old might sing in grade school. Well, the music kicked in and Austin sang a song by Alabama called “Angels Among Us.”

We were not prepared for the fact that Austin DeGroot was exceedingly talented. The power and emotion in which he belted out this song, with the timely message, simply blew the roof off the room and opened up a few hundred hearts until there were tears at every table. When he finished, the crowd erupted into a standing ovation and the young boy’s humble smile and twinkling eyes took our experience to the outer reaches of wherever moving hearts end up.

I was walking home from school on a cold winter day
Took a shortcut through the woods, and I lost my way
It was getting late, and I was scared and alone
But then a kind old man took my hand and led me home
Mama couldn't see him, oh but he was standing there
And I knew in my heart, he was the answer to my prayers

Chorus:
Oh I believe there are angels among us
Sent down to us from somewhere up above
They come to you and me in our darkest hours
To show us how to live, to teach us how to give
To guide us with the light of love

When life held troubled times, and had me down on my knees
There's always been someone to come along and comfort me
A kind word from a stranger, to lend a helping hand
A phone call from a friend, just to say I understand
And ain't it kind of funny at the dark end of the road
That someone lights the way with just a single ray of hope

No doubt Austin’s performance helped to unlock the resources of the already generous people at The Angel Golf Spectacular. He came by each table and gave us a three song CD which included “Angels Among Us.” The brother team of auctioneers had their job made easy and it showed in their white-boy rural rap; the charity came from every corner of the hall as the good will flowed. And then, in its tenth year, the most successful Spectacular was finally over.

On the long ride home the next morning, Nick and I listened to Austin’s CD and a few of mine. We talked about the whole experience, joking when necessary as cover for our greatest fears. Cancer is a killer. Everyone has friends and family fighting it or who have perished from it. We had come to The Northwoods under the auspices of doing something nice for Bruce; that we’d be great guys for being willing to drive the 350 miles for this good and giving man. Typical, I suppose, for those us so blessed to find virtue in such a minimal effort. I mean, how much one must really give to go play golf with good folks for a great cause in a beautiful setting.

The irony, of course, is that it was not us doing the favor. We got far more from the Spectacular than we could ever give. And while I can’t seem to get that nasty cartoon (animated short) out of my head - a two minute story where evil coldly claims innocence and goodness and life – I do believe that the real life counterparts of the boy and the angel, Austin and Bruce, represent a an ongoing triumph over those uneasy images. And they will, through their faith and how they share it, fare far better in every way, everyday, and eternally.

We were sitting at the bar at The Bog doing the usual post round stuff; savoring our fountain drinks, shoveling popcorn into our mouths and verbally dehumanizing one another whenever we weren’t chewing or slurping. The bets had been settled and NBA highlights were being shown on the tube with the sound turned low. The highlights were from the 7^th game of the Lakers- Suns series, the one where the Lakers were crushed and Kobe Bryant disappeared in the second half. Somebody in our group made a comment about the rout.

Billy Smith, seated to my right, looked at me and started laughing. “On the back?”

Only then did it dawn on me that what I had meant to say was “the second half,” not, “the back.” In the case of serious golfers, the game often captivates the brain; golf terms, golf analogies, and various other aspects of the game inevitably end up merging with civilian life. It may not be all that common with some folks, say, those clucking hens on The View or that guy in chains who almost drowned inside the big bubble of water, but you never know.

Nonetheless, there are a few everyday golf terms that do get widespread use by non-golfers, and the non-golfer part usually shows. How often do you hear folks whining that something is “par for the course” when referring to something negative. Like, somebody’s ex-husband is late again with child support and someone is bound to say, “Well, that’s just par for the course.” I don’t get it. I thought par was pretty damn good. I mean, you can have someone who goes around doing something positive, take some guy who goes around saving stranded cats from burning buildings - and no one ever proclaims the guy’s latest rescue as “par for the course.” But…when we discover that some psychotic serial killer had a history of blow-torching cats as a kid… Yep, everyone mumbles that it is “par for the course.” When did par become part of a rap sheet?

And when did “below par” become worse than par? I had to endure the horrors of a lame boss a few years ago. He lasted nine months and nine months of hell it was. During one of our weekly showdowns in his office, he spewed a bunch of noise about my attitude and my sales approach being “below par.” He needed to tell me this (“in words you might understand”) again and again, despite the fact that I was having a solid year and was well ahead of my sales plan. Now, bear in mind…this was a guy who would have had to ratchet up the manliness just to impersonate a retired figure skater turned interior decorator…for Liza Minnelli. This was a guy who had little fits when I used my vacation days for what he called (in his hissing way) “golfing contests.”

But getting back to his office; after the” below par” comment I looked at him hard and said “Thank you.”

He turned redder and headed toward purple. His head was doing the tiny nervous shakes I seemed to bring out in him.

And so it would seem that “par for the course,” to some people, is for losers and “below par” well, one mans goal is another man’s failure. Golf terms don’t always translate to real life.

Yet, many golf terms and overall concepts do make some sense. One such example occurred earlier that week. I was in my car trying to get on the interstate, the onramp was one of those really short ones south of Milwaukee, the car and truck spacing was bad; the sun was in my eyes. With a well-timed surge and a quick lane change, I made an aggressive burst to the left, splitting two cars and found myself in an available slot in the center lane. I was pleased; working anything right to left has never come easy to me. I thought, “Nice play from there, Hainer.” I may have even said it aloud.

Golf commentators, especially Lanny Wadkins and Bobby Clampett, repeatedly say “Nice play from there.” While it may make sense, it seems unnecessary. Like, Yes, viewing idiots…that flop-shot would have been a terrible idea from 220 yards away, but from the greenside rough, well that’s a…“nice play from there.”

Like this experience some 18 years ago. I was playing in a charity golf event that included a sit down dinner after the round. It was an interesting dinner. Every plate looked the same in that they were smallish plates that were just loaded with a ton of food. In fact, because the plates were small, it seemed like there was even more than a ton. In any event, the plate was so congested that there was very little room to operate. No bread plate, no salad dish, just a small plate overflowing with food. Maybe the head dishwasher was calling the shots in the kitchen.

In the center of the plate was a filet that was taller than it was wide, a little like a little bongo. It was wrapped in a peppery piece of bacon; glistening with crispy edges and looking all come hither. All guy golfers (and many women) know that crispy peppery bacon after a round of golf is a temptation virtually impossible to resist. You set out bacon-wrapped water chestnuts in the clubhouse on men’s day and they turn into bottomless dope-smokin’ piranhas.

The remaining items on the plate made for a bizarre scene in an Alice in Wonderland sort of way. There was a baked potato nearly the size of the boulder Tiger Wood’s had relocated by fans at the TPC of Scottsdale during the Phoenix Open a few years ago. There was some kind of “veggie medley” in a yellowish sauce that horse-shoed the filet and everything else, like a Pete Dye bunker (think short right of the 16^th green at Blackwolf Run’s Meadow Valley course). Let’s call it a “transitional yellow veggie medley area” since you could ground your fork without penalty. Turnips? Parsnips? Rutabagas? Who knew? Not us. A slab of bread stood like a piece of drywall, wedged on edge between the tater and the beef.

Strangest of all - and taking up the rest of the plate - was a bunch of wild green leaves and sprouty stuff. It was, I guess, something in the salad family (but devoid of anything as tolerable as iceberg lettuce). Emerging from the center of all that shrubbery was a couple of leafy umbrella-like things about the size of the business end of a flyswatter that kept much of the bacon-wrapped filet in the shade. The umbrellas were tethered to an anchoring stalk lying under the ominous green hedge-work. There was some kind of oily dressing dripping off these green canopies and it gave the foliage a moist sheen – a little like the ceiling of a tropical rainforest, I’d guess.

We were perplexed, others fairly paralyzed. We looked around at the other tables and the scene was surreal; little palm trees and drywall and boulders and transitional yellow veggie areas, the predicament seemed to be the same everywhere: How do you manage all that food without turning the tablecloth into a drop cloth from a Gallagher show? Foremost in everyone’s mind was getting at that bacon-wrapped filet located at the heart of the crowded plate. Some considered eating away at the transitional veggie medley area to create some room, but the stuff had yet to be positively identified. It would not be easy. Anxiety reigned. I, however, remained calm.

I took my time buttering the inner loins of my slightly splayed tater boulder. I applied pat after pat which was tricky because opening up the tater took up even more space- and displaced the bread. Others at my table tried the same thing but they immediately found themselves losing food over the ledge of their plate. The fact that the filet was at least as tall as it was wide led to some awkward knife-work. The little palm trees were catching folks in their cutting backswing, some guys were holding the salad branches back with the fingers of their non-knife hand and thumbing the steak to hold it steady. Technically, that’s two strokes, because some of it still had to be growing.. The bacon was wrapped tighter than anyone thought possible and would not come off without the serrated edge of the knife. Rivulets of “lateral melted butter” created some runoff tributaries around and under the other food stuffs making everything even slipperier. It was fast becoming “casual butter.” There was a lot of tumbling food going on – and probably more cursing in the dining room than there had been out on the course.

Until I started playing a fade recently, I often found myself in predicaments like this. Boulders, branches, and bunkers were just a part of a life away from the fairway. It was like going back to my old neighborhood; I was in my element. Guys who’ve hit it short and straight all their lives were floundering, they had no frame of reference. There is no real technique for these situations; it’s mostly a “feel thing.” I envisioned what had to be done. I found an opening where others found reason to panic. I won’t bore you with the details of my success, but it involved tipping the steak over on its side and using the biggest stalk from the foliage as a de facto saw horse.

The other golfers at my table – my three partners and another foursome - picked up on my technique. My dear and now dearly departed friend, Charlie Sindorf, a member of our foursome looked on in admiration and said “Man…that’s a nice play from there.” He and several others then did their best to imitate my action, and succeeded - which was flattering, although in some cases it just made for a bigger mess. Still, if even one golfer that day learned a little something about my approach to strange food on a crowded plate at charity events - that would be good enough for me.

Maybe I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that four different food groups piled upon one small plate don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. I understand that. And I do know this: We are lucky to be so blessed. Charlie and I were incredulous that day when so many got themselves so worked up over the “problem”…the “problem”of too much food. After playing golf to raise money for folks less fortunate, no less. Sadly, that’s too often “just par for the course.”

But when Ol’ Charlie looked on in admiration as I managed my meat, my tater, my medley and my greenery - and said, “that’s a nice play from there, man,” well, there are some things that stick with you, things you can draw on later in similar situations later in life. Like now, in middle age, “on the back,” as it were, the so-called inward nine of life. Life’s too short to spend it complaining - about too much.

To Golf and Play Well With Others
The Hainer

Remember when writers and commentators would cast the nearest competitor to Tiger Woods on the leader board as a fragile piece of blown glass waiting to fall to pieces simply from the breeze of an Eldrickian fist pump?

Remember how we were led to believe that even seasoned tour pros would involuntarily micturate in their tailored slacks whenever they heard the mounting surround-sound roars of the marching Bengal pilgrims as they conquered the inward nine on nothing but the fuel of high-octane awe?

Tigris Majorus Mostus is still likely to be considered the best there ever was -- he is ferocious and mentally tough and capitalizes on being who he is -- but please, it’s time to lighten up on the impact that one player has on another. Golfers in contention blow tournaments all the time, even when they’re not subjected to the mettle melting heat of a Paul Lawrie, a Shaun Micheel, or a Ben Curtis breathing down their neck. Golf is hard -- and winning is harder, but anyone in Tiger’s group on Sunday who doesn’t win is often unceremoniously dumped into a den of spastic white cats pouncing after a dangled piece of string that some would suggest is traceable to the puppeteering paw of the invincible jungle cat himself.

I got to thinking about this again several weeks ago. How it was such a crock when Johnny Miller for the most part attributed David Toms’ three putting from 60 grainy feet away with a tough angle on the 72nd hole at Doral to the presence of E. “Tiger” Woods lurking in the group behind him. Despite the fact that it was the type of putt that could easily have been three-jacked by Ben Crenshaw…in his prime…on his own backyard putting green.

Then, at this year’s Masters, there was all the talk of Fred Couples making Phil too comfortable by refusing to be militantly Hoganesque, or Faldocentrically mute, or for not growing a foe-wilting third eye ala The Golden Buddha himself…Jack Nicklaus. Just something - anything - to make Philly’s subcutaneous flesh a little clammier down the stretch. If it had been Tiger in the final group and it was he who had birdied 13 from the forest creek instead of Freddie, what would Phil have done when the imminent haymaking upper cut shattered the atmosphere and reformulated the oxygen such that it could be taken in only through the tiny receptors at the tip ends of cat whiskers? Yeah, that’s right; he’d have been reduced to broken glass and pee with no chance of capturing the dancing piece of string. (Just like Bob May, oh wait…never mind, BM didn’t blink, nor did he have a sudden BM in sudden death at Valhalla.)

Many folks felt that Freddie playing Officer Friendly to The New Born King just didn’t get it, but it was nothing more than Freddie, Joey, Bones and Philly having fun in a fight to the finish, which unfortunately happened to be on fourteen. (Had Freddie hit his iron to nine or ten feet instead of four on fourteen, the toonament may have gone right down to the 18th.) But alas, Phil took the fewest shots and won the Masters.

Again.

And that’s all it was.

Sure, we can speculate all we want on how it would have gone if Tiger had been in the final group, but that kind of thinking ends up being either an indictment on Tiger’s ability to compete in a group or two ahead (like Jack did in ’86) which is preposterous, or a contradiction to the very notion that being in the last group would have somehow impacted Phil, who happens to be as competitive as anyone anywhere. The presence of one does not affect the other adversely. If anything, it might elevate the level of their games. But mostly it does nothing. The guy who’s swinging and thinking well at the time -- and maybe gets a break or two -- gets the prize. Same as it ever was.

We have a couple guys in the Wisconsin Golf Hall of Fame who remain exceedingly competitive and but don’t particularly care for one another. One plays by the rules and the other sees them as something to overcome. Both are very talented and while they would not choose to play together, when they do, neither is impacted by the other with respect to how they play -- good, bad or indifferent. Same as it ever was….letting the days go by. No talking heads, them, when they find themselves paired. They just play.

And you may ask yourself…are the younger players impacted by playing with the Tiger and the Phil, or on our amateur level, do the college kids get bothered by the weight of playing with the Hall of Famers? Well, the answer is…it’s NOT the same as it ever was. These days the kids have taken their games on the road at such an early age and played in so many competitions that they do not even pay attention to who’s supposed to be good or who used to be menacing and who’s worthy of fear. They simply rip high hooks and bang their rollers at the hole and add them up. Sometimes they are stupid good, other time just plain stupid, as it is with a lot of people who play golf.

Of course, at any age and any level, there are good and bad people to play with. This is based on etiquette, personality, integrity and the greatest gift of all – that precious understanding of what not to say. A gift often discovered too late. You see folks who’ve been disagreeable narcissists for 30 years who suddenly turn into Eddie Haskell as a senior in a last ditch attempt at rehabbing their justly earned reputations for being petulant golf course divas or just plain jags -- guys who have said too much or, in rarer cases, not enough. No doubt they’re everywhere and at every level.

But for every golfer that performs worse for having to play with a jag, there is another one who kicks the jag’s ass for the same reason. At least that’s what they’ll say, even if it’s more a case of that just being the way it turned out that day. As for the vast majority, they simply don’t give a damn.

As with anyone who plays competitive golf, whether it’s on Tour with Tiger or with the local hero in wraparound shades, it pretty much comes down to solid shots and made putts and the preparation it takes to make that stuff happen. It is all about playing good holes and avoiding the bad ones. You make it any more complicated than that and you’re just gonna micturate shots away in bunches. Even if you must play with some dreaded others, don’t let them be the reason should they make their way onto your card.

It may make for a beautiful story when, after playing a par three hole, Hogan supposedly pulled the scorecard from his pocket to mark down the score of his playing partner - who had just made a hole in one - and then asked the guy what he had made on the hole. Seriously. The story is meant to illustrate how fiercely focused The Wee Ice Mon was – but such is the more narcotic side of nostalgia. But as often as this fable is repeated, I don’t believe it ever happened.

However, if you happen to believe this story -- that Hogan was too lost in pronation keys to notice an ace in his own group -- then perhaps you very well may believe Phil could have faltered down the stretch in The Masters if 1) Freddie hadn’t been so fist-bumping chummy, and/or 2) Tiger had also been in the last group with Phil -- eyeing him like he was a family-sized Roy Horn.

I seriously doubt it, but we’ll never know for sure. And it is this factual uncertainty that brings to life such overbearing argumentative certainty in many others, for nothing is as passionately debated as that which cannot be conclusively proven. Like a well struck wedge, the fun is in the spin.

Not the typical Hainer column (if there is such a thing as a ‘typical’ Hainer column), this is a piece of fiction that Hainer Himself has been working on.

And, typical of most efforts at effortlessness, the boy’s hop-steps as he half-ran toward the far end of the practice tee were contradiction in action. The small black and teal golf bag containing five clubs wasn’t heavy on his shoulder, but its length was enough to disrupt the natural bounce of a nimble boy of nine. Especially a boy of nine on a mission. He was laser-locked on the open spot that would soon be his; so flat, with short green Bluegrass, but most of all – God willing - just seconds away from being…all his.

He was intent on following his dad’s first rule for a crowded range: “Get your spot, then get your balls; but you need some balls to get your spot.” There was one spot left, at the very end of the slightly elevated hitting area that butted up to a stand of trees and some bushes. He couldn’t help imagining someone would materialize from the trees and take the open spot. His spot.

There were grownups waiting behind other grownups right on down the line. Did they not see the vacant spot the boy saw? He knew some people would never take that last spot. They were put off by the scrub oak that dipped in from the front right at that end. That tree was why his dad preferred that spot. And, it was a pretty long walk for the old folks who had to park their carts at the other end. Maybe the regulars just got lost in their yakking. His dad had reminded him again last night that the yakkers often missed the next open spot. “Stay ready,” he had said, “and then pounce--like a jungle cat with say-so.”

This was the boy’s first time to the range at The Old Barn Golf Course without his dad. It was, to serious golfers, a rite of passage - and he was ready. Weekends were always packed at The Old Barn, but most of the regulars knew the boy, or who he was, because of his father and his assorted state championships. His mom had dropped him off after he had completed his Saturday chore. This week it was putting a screwdriver to the weeds coming through the cracks in their concrete driveway. His dad was out on the course, as usual, and was probably close to finishing. He would be by soon after to watch the boy swing for a bit before they headed out together for burgers.

And so the boy surged up and down and ahead like a kid who had kicked a cleat on kick return. The adults on the range turned and tossed warm cracks his way as if leading him with a pass in whatever sport. But with his focus locked on the remaining spot, his goofy gallop kicked into another gear and took him fast past everyone--and their sweet nothings hit nothing but his backside, if not the day’s thin air. It was a one-kid cavalry charge bent on taking some territory; that place on the range, a spot to call his own. He nodded with brief glances toward the big people on every fourth or fifth step, just to be polite. Fear descended as he became wary that some desperate golfer might just parachute onto his land and take his spot. He checked the bright sky, it was empty but for the blue. Whew.

He leaned forward and pushed harder in the bone-dry midday heat of June at The Ol’ Barn. His senses were alive. Only forty feet to go. No planes, no chutes. Good. And, so far, no one appeared to be emerging from the trees. Okay.

Then, with his mission nearly completed, the boy chucked the tatters of his vanity and went straight to Geekville. He disengaged from the shoulder strap, thrust his bag under his arm and ran, full-out, but a little stooped like the soldier who has to carry the not-so-portable rocket launcher. And then it was his….all his. He had infiltrated and captured the coveted seven or so feet of land at the end of the range with surprising ease; if ease means overcoming a fear of paratroopers falling out of the sky and camouflaged golfers coming from the bushes.

He plopped his bag in the middle of his spot the way he supposed ol’Admiral Peary planted his flag on the North Pole. I got here first… and this is mine! His dad would be proud his boy had had the balls to get his spot. Not just a spot, but his dad’s favorite spot. Now, he needed balls to hit.

The boy dug two tokens from his pocket. With his back to the range, he looked right, back down the range line. No one was coming, yet most every hitting station was now two- and three-deep with golfers waiting their turn. Then he looked left, checking one more time for shadowy figures lurking amidst the willows and bushes. It seemed no one was poised to steal his spot should he head to the ball dispensing machine. He stared there until he was sure his imagination wasn’t messing with him. The scrub oak, 25 yards out, at a half past 12 hour-hand angle, had too many leaves to see if anyone was hiding up in the branches. It was go time.

The boy scampered quickly to the ball dispensing machine which was just back and center to the range’s hitting area. He kept looking back at his spot. His bag still staked his claim to the spot - his spot. The machine, which many adults at The Old Barn thought a clunky piece of waste product, was a snap for the boy. He’d been jamming this box for years with his dad, who somehow had acquired a cigar box full of tokens. His touch was practically to the manner born.

He pushed in the first token, held the lever for a second and aggressively pulled it back out. With a rumble of thunder straight from heaven, the machine handed down a half bucket of gold. He positioned the second token in his right hand. This one would fill his large bucket to the top with yellow Top-Flites. But somewhere, either in the distance or in his mind, he heard a bad sound. An engine. No. Growing louder. Aw...come on! The boy was certain it was a small airplane circling above the range ready to drop somebody into his spot. “Please God, don’t…” he said to himself, but it came out louder than he wanted, just as the man with long pretty-boy salt and pepper hair came roaring around the corner in a cart and right up to the ball machine. The sound was not an airplane but the man’s gas powered golf cart. The boy fumbled his 2nd token off the asphalt and it vanished in the untrimmed grass around the side of the machine. His ears got hot and his scalp had the bad tingle.

“Hey kid, shit or get off the pot,” said the man as he snapped his fingers six or seven times as fast as he could. “I’m on the tee in ten minutes.” It was something he said every time the range was crowded.

The only person who despised this man more than the boy was the boy’s father. And the boy disputed that. The boy quickly concluded he better take the balls he did have and get back to his land, because this man, whom the boy called “Hair Dude” among other things, would be the type to bully his way onto land that was not his. He was known for it.

The boy refused to even look at the Hair Dude. He turned with his half bucket in hand and started to jog toward his land. But within four steps, the wire bucket-handle slipped its hinge and his yellow balls scattered in every direction. The boy went after his balls, scrambling on all fours like someone playing solitaire Twister in triple time. Two kindly old men tried to help but they would have had better luck grabbing a small fish in a fast river. The boy seized his bounding yellow balls quickly, snatching them like a champion Jacks player. He heard voices above him, “Just like his old man collecting bets,” and “Look at those little hands fly.” Everything else was the white noise of a packed cafeteria. He saw colors and hands reaching down and feet turning sideways and shadows; a dog’s eye view of a bad abstract painting. He paid no attention to any of it. And then he heard the Hair Dude’s cart making the beeping sound carts makes when backing up. Like the guy in the black hat, rearing up on his steed, there was no doubt in the boy’s mind that the Hairball would be going for the boy’s precious land. It was a gut feeling, and he understood his gut feelings better than his anxiety about phantom skydivers and the like.

The boy almost forgot to keep breathing. He got to his feet and broke towards his property. The Hairy Dude had jumped in front of him after first swerving around the “NO CARTS BEYOND THIS POINT!” sign. With no hair moving and a carefree air about him, Hair Dude cruised along the tee line in his cart, waving and smiling like a dictator in a Third World parade. When he slowed down to watch Julie Pearson’s butt-shaking waggle, the boy burst past him and up the incline to the hitting area near his land. The adrenalin and the nerves and the fight for all that was worth fighting for gave fuel to one last burst--and he “pounced like a jungle cat with say-so.” The sudden acceleration caused the boy to stumble and spill his yellow range balls all over again. But this time they fell around his little stand bag - on his property.

The Hair Dude simply parked the cart, grabbed a few clubs and walked up to the boy’s spot with his half-bucket of balls and placed his clubs against the bag port. The boy may as well have been invisible.

The boy held his ground, pointing to his bag and his spilled balls. He was intent on showing his balls alright. “This is my spot,” he said, but his voice cracked on ‘spot.

So he followed quickly, “I was here first.” This came out ballsy. Too ballsy for comfort when other golfers looked over. The six foot four inch hair dude was getting it from a nine-year old boy. Such were the demands of justice.

“Boy,” said the follicle god with a chuckle, “you and your old man think you own this spot, don’t you?” He made his head do little shakes with some faster chuckles. “Well guess what? You don’t.” More head shakes. “You tell him.” The Hair Dude was nodding now. Hair holding its position.

The boy stood statue-still as he faced the large man; he focused only on the Hair Dude’s hefty man-breasts, some big ol’ boobs aimed straight down at him. Gross. Somehow, staring at the Hair Dude’s tits kept him repulsed enough to fight off a sneak-attack from his own tears. A defense mechanism triggered from a primal instinct that tough kids call on to save face in man-boy showdowns. A kick to the nuts was what was really in his heart, but he had to keep it together. His first day alone on the range could not end in combat with his dad’s archrival at The Old Barn.

“I’m off in ten minutes, kid, now step aside. You wanna hit now, you can hit from there.” Hair Dude pointed at the miserable side-slope falling off the elevated hitting area. It had bare spots from limited sun that were mixed with clumpy islands of longer grass. Big overgrown Chia Pets or cracked hardpan? It was no choice at all. “Or…you can watch and learn.” He tossed an unlit cigar aside. A signal that his invasion had been completed.

The boy decided he would pick up his balls very slowly, and, eventually, stand at the side and stare at the Hair Dude. The Hair Dude knew what the boy in slow motion was doing, and was getting angrier by the second. The boy could not have been more pleased than to piss off the grownup he wanted to piss off most in the entire Solar System.

Hair Dude started kicking some of the balls to the side for the boy to retrieve while he hit. After clearing them away, the boy noticed that, for all the blow dried, hard-guy bravado of the big man, he was mumbling now. Not so cool. Again the boy’s instincts flexed; the Hair Dude was not comfortable. He was messing with the son of the guy who…well, it just wasn’t smart.

Hairy Cleavage loosened up with a few short iron shots, some were good and some were bad. But the bad ones were really bad; a half-shank and a couple of fatties. The boy enjoyed this, and discovered that when he slowly put his hand over his mouth after such shots, the Hair Dude got angrier. The consolation prize for the boy after getting bumped was the fact that everything that happened here would be reported by some of the people on the range to the boy’s dad. The boy began to rehearse his own version.

The Hair Balloon decided he was through messing around and he pulled out the driver. The Hair Dude was most proud of his powerful sweeping hook off the tee. He frequently sacrificed accuracy, as well as many a new golf ball trying to go where no man has gone before. This he often did, but not always where they could be found. But on the range he was King Kong.

The boy watched the man tee up his yellow Top-Flite range ball, then walk slowly behind it, waiting for others to notice that the big man was about to start belting with the big stick. Acting like he was the Mighty Babe pointing to centerfield. He waggled, and the swagger returned. He took the club back, his hair motionless, and put his considerable T & A into a big swing. For all the Hair Dude’s disgusting traits, the man did have a beautiful golf swing and a lot of talent. Something that made him even more unbearable. He did have his minions who wanted only to make him laugh, maybe just to see his upper body jiggle, or make a putt to take all the points as his partner, where again, a high five would start the jiggling all over again. But they were loyal sons of bitches, and they knew as well as any that the more the Hair Dude’s rack was rockin’ during his round, the more rounds he bought after.

He snap hooked it something hideous. The boy raised his hand halfway to his mouth before the Hair Dude looked directly at him and enunciated clearly, neither loud nor soft, “Fuck.” And then let his eyes linger on the boy a few seconds longer. It gave the kid the creeps, but he willed himself to stare back until the Hair Dude turned away.

He swung even harder on the next one and the same thing happened. Uglier even. “Suckass tree’s right in my way,” hissed the Hair Dude. An organized division of hairs mobilized and broke from the disciplined masses on his head and quickly scaled down his forehead. He slammed the club down, flipped at the clump of misbehaving hair with his fingers - and it came right back as if to flip him off. The boy could not wait to tell the whole story to his dad. And the Hair Dude had to know it. He was pressing.

As if on cue with the boy’s thoughts, his dad appeared over the crest of the bunkering by the 18th green and was heading down to range. He carried his bag with an athletic grace he had handed down to his son. Grace that was evident in every activity either of them performed, especially the boy, unless he was racing to a spot on the range with his golf bag, seeking to beat paratroopers and infantrymen looking to take it away.

The boy waved to his dad as he approached quickly from less than 50 yards away. Hair Dude looked over to see the boy’s dad, everybody’s hero, heading their way and he said something under his breath. After the Hair Dude returned his attention to his ball, the boy’s dad gave a single nod to his son; he always used one, big, slow nod from a distance to acknowledge those worth acknowledging.

The boy shuffled his feet. He had his balls gathered in the bucket after he had secured his spot, just as he was taught. But the Hair Dude had blown it all up. The boy had imagined his dad coming down to the range, where he would be all set up, in his dad’s favorite spot no less--the one where the oak tree made you cut the ball to hit the range targets. He would have been showing off to the grownups with his amazing ball striking skills, and making sure to be good and humble about it. It should have been that way.

The angry head of hair with the sagging headlights crushed a shot with his driver. The sound was unmistakable. The boy was unable to resist turning to look, even though his plan was to look away if the Hair Dude caught one good. He saw the ball smash into the scrub oak, as was common for hookers and pushers hitting from the far spot.

The sound of the ball hitting the oak was startling. The entire range at The Old Barn Golf course stopped hitting and yakking. But none of that registered much with the boy.

A bird of prey (some called it a raptor, others said it was some sort of vulture; most likely it was a red-tailed hawk, but in any case, the big bird in the tree) was even more startled than the folks on the range.

The Hair Dude’s shot caromed off the scrub oak and back at the range. The yellow ball apparently was perceived to be a little snicky-snack by the hawk and he tracked it in less than an instant. The ball slammed into the Hair Dudes golf cart, which was not supposed to be there, and ricocheted into the chest of the boy. At least two talons tore into the right side of the boy’s jaw, as the boy was momentarily overtaken by an obscenely large wingspan and paralyzing fear.

“Jesus Christ!” the Hair Dude screamed just as the boy’s father arrived at the scene in a full sprint, coming right through the hitting line like a jungle cat with say-so and God help anyone who got in his way. The hawk figured things out quickly and disappeared almost as fast as he attacked.

The Hair Dude kept repeating “O Jesus Christ,” in a raspy helium voice. The boy lay perfectly flat. His hand went to his face and his small fingers pulled parallel streaks of blood across his cheek. Depending on one’s point of view, the look was Native American warrior or Adidas. His eyes stayed dry, but his pants were wet.

The story grew more fantastic with most every telling as it traveled from The Old Barn and throughout the state. How Danny Moran’s boy had to be rushed to the hospital for stitches and was scarred for life from a shot hit by his chief rival Andy Salamone. The punch and the comment got good play as well.

Danny Mo didn’t ask a lot of questions at first; he had gone straight to his boy. And when Salamone looked at him and said, “I’m sorry…” he thought he might just let it go until after taking his son for medical help. But when Salamone didn’t add a period to the “I’m sorry…” he doomed his fate by adding “...but I’m on the tee.” Danny Moran stood up, calmly turned and unleashed a short, piston-like straight right hand, directly below Salamone’s Winnebagos, and knocked every bit of air from the lungs of Andy the now doubled-over, long-hitting, melon-chested Hair Dude.

“I don’t ever want to see you bring a cart down this range again! Got it Sally-moan?” Then he messed up Salamone’s hair something good with an upside-down range bucket as dunce cap, and pushed him over. It took less than five seconds.

Maurice “Mo” Moran felt his dad come to him. He was safe now, as always, when with his dad. The boy was wet, sheet-white and shaking. Still, he was on his feet before Salamone. He didn’t cry until the car ride to the hospital – when he told his dad he had gotten his spot, the way he was taught. As Danny Mo drove, Mo Mo’s unrelenting sobs and occasional words merged and nothing much was intelligible other than things like “stupid Hair Dude” and “my spot.” But then Danny Mo heard his boy rush to the finish with a string of words that cut to the center of his heart. Words handed down to him from his grandfather decades ago, and now a “saying” between just them.

“Cuz’... I was bein’ like a jungle cat with say-so, Dad, really I was….you shoulda seen me. I pounced! I…..” Then, through muffled heaves, everything fought its way out from inside the little boy – words no longer possible. The jungle cat in the passenger seat was a hyperventilating collection of mucus, blood and pee. And all his Dad wanted to do was hold him.

“I know Mo Mo, I really…do” It was Danny Moran’s turn to have his voice crack. He pulled down the driver’s side visor, just to do something. He used his right hand, his arm a screen. He didn’t want his son to see there were tears enough for two.

In the midst of having the Milwaukee Metro All Stars squash the Outlanders (or Bucky's Best, as they are known) at The Badgerland Cup, we were having the Competition Dinner in The Bull's dining room. Da Hainer was given the microphone to solicit stories of putting misery from the players in order to hand out some Yes! Putters and the putting book by Jerry Korte and Gary D'Amato. He immediately began a sojourn down memory lane.

I had asked him to write what he spoke that night, and the following is it. The story is funny in print, funnier told by John, and quite heartwarming should you know the Warobick family or have your own family of putters.

Read on and enjoy yourselves. ~ Driller

The other day, playing golf with my friend and best ball partner Tom Halla, I posed the age-old question among gentlemen: “How many putters would you say you’ve had as an adult?”

Willfully recalling my past putters invites many a story. And while I’ve won twelve titles with 10 different putters, it’s those useless lamp stands that never won a thing that have played the greatest role in my growth as a person. What’s the saying? “Anything that doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” True, no putter actually ever threatened to kill me, though my putting over the years has not proven to be above torture.

It was 1988 – if memory serves - my second year of competitive amateur golf after 10 years of competitive amateur/semi-pro baseball. I had earmarked my next commission check for covering a new putter because the one I was using had become nothing but a recalcitrant 8802 wanna-be. That Friday, payday, was a day I had looked forward to for a while. I would be going to see one of my favorite bands, The Rainmakers from Kansas City, but not before picking out a new putter that would not be so blatantly recalcitrant.

I was single at the time, so I was dressed casually but exceedingly presentable in a come-hither kind of way. I had on my cowboy-ish ankle boots which made me taller - and pretty much irresistible to women. That evening, before heading to the show, I entered B & G Golf and told the sales Cling-Ons to take me to their putters. After touching every damn one of them in a way that was, on some level I’m sure, rewarding for both parties, I decided on a pricey, black and gold Slotline. I was certain it would become my personal savior. I enjoyed the process of the purchase and placed it under a blanket in the back of my company issued Oldsmobile. I was going into the city, one could never be too careful with cars containing Alpine stereos or Slotline putters. Such was life on the streets.

I met some friends at the concert and was having a great time until an unfortunate incident occurred. A lovely young woman had apparently found me and my cowboy-ish ankle boots pretty much irresistible, which was to be expected, but some guy, “just a friend”- begged to differ. The lass had already told me she had nothing going with the tall geeky “just-a-friend,” but nonetheless he came barreling into my personal space at the concert. I looked at the tall barreler with amusement until he reached out to, apparently, attempt something in the push or shove family of activities. The kid was maybe 6’ 6” and perhaps 166. I grabbed his boney wrist which contained a half dozen or so metal bracelets. My grab was perfect. The bracelets bunched together and pinched his skin in a manner that explained the puppy-like helium squeals he emitted. The dude nearly went down, giraffe-like, his eyes were blinking and watering as I gave him my uneven eyebrow look. Then, I twisted his wrist like I was capable of juggling three or four of the middle planets - and their moons.

That was when the bouncers came swarming onto the scene. One went with the tall, “just-a-friend” helium squealing puppy, and the other was responsible for the now completely irresistible me. I explained that I only use my powers for good, never evil, and so when the bouncer walked me to the side door he said, “If you want to come back, come to this door, I’ll let you in.” I said, “No thank you, I just purchased a Slotline, I’m going home to putt in my living room.” Like that would explain everything. I think the bouncer thought I was referring to some suburban form of self-gratification.

After a brief stop at Taco Bell for a ten-pack to go, five soft, five hard, I made it home, rife with anticipation to roll some putts in my living room while watching a tape of - I think it might have been - The Colonial. I kicked off my boots and ate maybe eight or nine tacos- so as to not feel like a pig. But…now the Slotline felt like a completely different putter. It seemed long and unwieldy. I shook it off and planned on a visit to Silver Spring Golf Course to practice with it the next day.

The next day, the Slotline again felt long and unwieldy. When out of my cowboyish boots, the putter seemed enormously long- and flat. It seemed hockey stick long. Weird. I was edgy.

When I went to Silver Spring, the big putting green was closed. The little green with but two holes was open however. No one was around and I set up to practice to my heart’s content in my own little world. I was enamored with my shiny new toy, but, alarmingly, it was turning into a cranky bitch at a high rate of speed. Still, she was so pretty I chose to love her unconditionally. But it became somewhat clear that after owning the thing for less than 18 hours, it too was recalcitrant.

I worked with it for maybe 45 minutes when along came a short, older gentleman and a young boy of maybe 8 or 9. From a distance, I could see that the Grandpa had a light step and a radiant way about him. The kid was cute and basking in the generosity of the old mans radiance. Made me sick, they would be taking up 50% of the little putting green, where I was in turmoil. I prefer my turmoil in private.

I didn’t even look at them when they came onto the green. Then, I heard the old man explaining the finer points of putting to the kid. It was all about loose arms and not thinking and some “aim and fire” BS. He did this while banging in putt after putt. Non-stop yakking from the old guy as the kid laughed and clapped while I was stewing over 5 footers and being encouraged by my lip-outs.

Then the boy started draining putts as the Grandpa encouraged him with the mellifluous voice of a holy man. I kept my ass pointed in their direction as the smoke came pouring from my ears. I took a peek and I could see the old man bending over and helping the kid. From behind, I could only see one helluva big nose coming from the front of the radiant, showboat holy man. Then, the Grandpa man turned and looked at me. It was Lou Warabick, the legendary one; great player, great teacher, great person, and apparently, a great putter with some old beat up putter that looked like a sawed-off one iron. I wanted to tell him how I had just beaten his long and powerful son, Randy, in the State long-drive competition at Western Lakes the year before so he might know I was someone to reckon with, but my humility, as usual, won out. The young boy it turned out, was Randy’s son Brad, in fact he’s remains to this day, Randy’s son Brad.

I had met Lou the year before and I was shocked and flattered when he recalled that we had indeed met. He brought his big nose over to my side of the green and was all twinkly and warm and, well…direct.

He looked at my putter, knew exactly what it was, “a Slotline, hey,” and had me scuff a few five footers. Then he smiled and told me to “loosen my arms and not think so much and just “aim and fire.” I was nervous in his presence and I may have double hit one. Then he took my new putter into his Hogan-like hands and said “whoa, she’s a long one isn’t she?” Lou, maybe 5’ 7”, choked way up on it and actually had to turn his face so his nose wouldn’t get boxed around by the handle. He made a couple, but they were sneaking in, not your proverbial “center-cut” variety.

So the great man looked at my space-age putter, holding it up to the sky and said, “She’s bent.” He kept nodding. “I hate to say it, but I think she’s bent. You better get that checked out Johnny.” Lou had a way of saying your name that made you care about him too.

I looked over at little Brad holding Lou’s battered old piece of crap putter. It was nicked and discolored and prehistoric. I said, “Yeah, okay, I just bought it yesterday.”

I took the putter back to B&G and they said they did some back room magic to it. My next round I must have put some bad strokes on some misreads because everything went in. And that, my friends, was what made me hang on to my shiny Slotline longer than I should have. I do, however, remember when I just knew that it would have to go – The ’88 State Amateur at Ozaukee Country Club.

I was playing with Pat Boyle and Jerry Strege. 16^th hole, par three, wet green, Boyle backs one into the jar for an ace. I backed one up 10 feet below the hole. Strege makes a 40 footer for a deuce. I want to make a 2 so we might have 212 – a tribute to Boyle, if you will. Nope. I don’t come close, but shake the next one in from 5 feet. It was just so pathetic, though everyone liked the 123 component. But, I knew I would never use my too long, too flat, black and gold Slotline in another round ever again.

On the 18^th hole I somehow slashed my ball out of the long rough to the very back left of the green. The hole, of course, was front right, probably 65 mogul-filled feet or more away. Three breaks later, on a putt that took forever to get to the cup – it dropped in for birdie.

I felt like a guy meeting with his girlfriend to break up – but then she gives you a watch before you can say a word.

I never even put that thing back into my bag as I headed to the parking lot. There, I ran into Tom Halla and told him, “This putter is history.”

He took it, looked at it, then looked at me and said, “You know, this thing is like…bent.”

“Obviously,” I said as I threw it into the deepest recess of my trunk. No blanket, no head cover, no golf bag. I discovered it again just before turning in my company car for a new one. But it was like three company cars later. I just kept dumping it in the trunk of my next car every couple years. Like a photograph of an old girlfriend, I had mixed emotions.

Finally, I eventually used it as a fire poker and the head fell off. It had never handled the heat too well anyway.

Destination: Four good golf courses and a well-managed Super 8 near Saint Louis.

Forecast: Four days of possible rain, highs near fifty, lows in the thirties, wind blowing from a direction.

The “golf-guy get-away” is one of life’s great rewards for hotshots and chops alike. All you really need is a little cash or a credit card, one Y chromosome, and not be, as of yet, dead. The same qualities, come to think of it, for which my wife may have married me. Seriously, to break away without burning up too many vacation days at work or any residual goodwill at home isn’t always the easiest thing to pull off. But once again, we did it, and damn if it wasn’t a wonderful thing to look forward to after the cold, hard hammer of winter had some of us all bent out of shape.

We again went in fine style. It was the week leading up to Easter, Wednesday through Saturday, and we had reservations at one of your better-managed Super 8s just outside of Saint Louis in one of those suburbs where you were close to everything and nothing. Thirty minutes to some terrific golf courses with famous designers, and 30 seconds to the chain restaurant of your choice. And so we felt like lotto-winners.

We were eight golf-deprived guys in three cars driving six hours one way on a southbound interstate through the frosted brown and khaki landscape of western Illinois. The toll ways of Rockford came quickly, then a stop for fluids, in-take and out-flow, in Bloomington-Normal, and on to Alton and beyond. We watched the temperature on the dashboard go up one degree every 50 miles. 41 degrees was looking like a real possibility, and for that we were grateful to whichever God each of us counted on for providing us with what we needed, if not everything we wanted.

On the way down, I rode with Dr. Jeffrey Ausen in his luxury SUV. It had that GPS navigation deal with a little map screen that shows where you are and where you’re going while an omniscient, erudite woman (Driller calls her Condi) gently announced not only when and which way to turn, but also when to resist such a temptation and simply “continue on...” She could not, however, keep Zdriller from playing his Dixieland CD (the house-music in hell, no doubt); nor did she intervene when Z felt compelled to break down the lyrics from Tom T. Hall’s “Old dogs, Children and Watermelon Wine.” Who would have thought that “Half-Empty Jeffrey” was such a softie?

On the way back, I rode with Bob Gregorski, Bill Linneman and Tom Halla. Bob doesn’t drink and drive anymore, but he does do pretty much everything else. At any one time Bob may be on the phone (while driving, mind you) working out odd franchise development deals. Strip mall combos like Starbucks/Famous Footwear/24 hour Taxidermy/Associated Bank/Drive-thru Vasectomy, you name it…all while perusing a golf magazine and cursing another car that was cursing him, or perhaps checking some data on his Palm Pilot or Blackberry or whatever it is while munching French fries and washing them down with one of those Starbucks beverages that ends in a vowel. The man’s a multi-tasker.

The first round of golf, as has become tradition, was at the Jack Nicklaus-designed Stonewolf Golf Course. However, this time they had not told us when we made our tee-times that they’d be aerating the greens the day before we got there. We’d sooner eat light-bulbs and throw back Draino chasers before playing on freshly aerated greens—but we stepped out of our vehicles and plowed through our 18 holes, during which the temperature plummeted from a halcyon high of our coveted 41 to the mid-thirties, but with enough wind for us to experience the roaring twenties according to some “feels like” meteorological jive. It was lovely--and the wet aerated greens had ruts you could lose a wedge in.