Fuggum

Tuesday was June 20th and a bizarre day for me. It began with an early wake-up call for golf, some toast, a hard-boiled egg, and a pot of coffee. It was nice, in a novel way, to be up that early. I was up with the wife, got a decent morning smooch, and felt like I belonged to civilization for a change. I took a nice long pull off my coffee. Siiiiiiiiiiiip, aah. I looked around and felt good. Amy joined me in the kitchen and asked if we were still switching cars.

Blasted, Rattley Nissan exhaust system. My nemesis! We just had this car in last week for an exhaust rattle. And after blowing major portions of my weekend to circumnavigate the drop-off and pick-up of the car, this new rattle showed up ten minutes after driving off the lot. Piece of shit. But like a kick to the manhood, I must honor my contract to take care of the car nuisances of life.

"Sure," I told her, secretly plotting to drive the car off a viadock.

I got my shit together and got on the road. The morning commute is a real ball-buster and I was concerned about my 8:30 tee-time. At first the going was smooth, the rattle was drowned out by NPR, and I was back to enjoying my coffee. Around North avenue, the Kennedy ground to a hault. As I crawled along, the sun broke through the morning haze, and I reached into the middle council of the Jeep for my sunglasses. Wait... my sunglasses are in the Jeep. And I'm not driving my Jeep. That's okay, I got an extra pair of sunglasses... in... my... golf....bag. Baah!

"Hi, hunny, uh how's the drive going... Want to drop my golf clubs out at my parent's house real quick?

Ultimately, as I crawled along the Kennedy, my father and Amy made a successful golf club transfer in the parking lot of the Cumberland exit Dominick's. I got off the Kennedy at Foster and took Northwest Highway the rest of the way. Dad was waiting for me in the driveway and we had ten minutes until we teed off. We got to the course in twelve, got on the tee box, I had to run back to get my push cart but still had time for a sip of Lee's coffee. By this time, between the gallon of coffee, the rush hour traffic and operation club drop, my nerves were frazzled. Then, just as we were about to tee off, an old timer pulled up in his cart, got out and informed us he would be joining us. Great, an weird old guy to make me nervous in my backswing.

Picking up a fourth is just one of those things about golf. Its a mixed bag. Sometimes the guy never says a word or its awkward. Sometimes he's a character, cracking jokes, making it a day. John Miller, an ex-marine in his 80's and Mount Prospect Golf Course institution, is a character.

After getting us to agree to gamble a dollar for the guy with the most fairways and fewest putts, we teed off and descended onto the course. We quickly realized that John hit a lot of fairways but didn't take "gimme's". Explaining something about his handicap and being a purist. But we slowly caught on to John's real gig.

The first hint was his crispy brown tan and how faded his club head covers were. The second hint was that everyone on the entire course knew him. He kept hitting fairways and putts though, and at the turn he was running away with my 2 dollars. He must absolutely love to play golf, everyday.

On the back nine, John forgot his driver on the tee box after taking a leak in a bush. One of the guys in the cart returning his club asked if we could hurry it up. He said he had a doctor's appointment. I thought to myself, who is this guy, Doctor Beeper? John didn't take kindly to the suggestion either, explaining that he knew the guys, that they were "wrinkle-asses", and not to worry about them. We all agreed that they could've asked to play through at any point, but never did, and should shut up about their proctologist appointments. Instead, the situation came to a head on the next hole.

The day had already been interesting as Lee lined-up his putt. But just as he was about to hit we heard a "Come On, Let's Go" from the tee-box behind us. Are you kidding me? Now Dr. Beeper is pulling an Al Czervik. "While We're Young!" Looking back at that moment, I should've just thrown my putter at him like Judge Smails.

Instead, our camp was flabbergasted by the bush league tee-box rant and took our sweet time cleaning up on the green. Like I said, Dr. Beeper could've asked to play through at any point, and we would've let them. But etiquette states that since they didn't ask, we must assume they are fine with our pace. When the Wrinkle-asses drove up, Lee walked back to the green to have a few words. In typical Dr. Beeper fashion, the guy was a douche bag, acted like he owned the place, and he tried to get Lee to "Get Going" by repeatedly saying "Get Going" and pointing at the next tee box where Dad and John were watching the thing unfold.

Lee told Dr. Beeper to "shove that finger up your ass", and I took it as an invitation to drop as much mustard as I could. Lee tried to reason with the guy, explaining that according to golf etiquette, he was an asshole. I saw it more as a game of one-upmanship. While Lee reasoned, and Dr. Beeper pointed, I got in as many one-liners as possible. I opened with "You're a fucking arrogant cocksucker". Doubled right back with a "You bush-league fuck". Before fizzling into a stream of "Motherfucker's" as I walked back to the tee box. In retrospect, I wish I had told him to shove his putter up his ass. But at least I got the last word in. "Fucking asshole." Upon stating such, I promptly ripped a severe hook directly into the lumberyard.

Obviously, the adrenaline was pumping from the confrontation and I can see how things like that can get out of control. Although for a golf course, a very loud, explitive-heavy verbal confrontation is about as out of control as it gets without booze and golf carts. Still, we were pretty heated about the thing and Lee addressed the Ranger, but eventually John calmed down the whole situation with a relic from his days in the Marines. He spelled it out, F-U-G-G-U-M. Fuggum. As in... "Fuck 'em".

The rest of the round went off like golf normally does. I played like shit, but hit a few decent ones. We payed our six bucks to John and told it him it had been an honor. Later in the day, I would realize that my softball cleats were in my Jeep too. After freaking out some more, I said fuggum and found an old pair of gym shoes at my parent's house. I directed us to the wrong diamond, and the shorts Lee lent me were too short. Fuggum. It was one of those days. Eventually Lee and I played our softball game. The non-cleats were a non-factor, but we lost a close one.

As I drove home with in the rattley Nissan, I realized two things:

1. Sox were beating the crap out of the Cardinals.... 20-2!
2. Unless it is actually important, you can rid yourself of a lot of anxiety by adhering to the 'Fuggum' principle.