Post 756 - In Sotto Voce, Becoming a Golf Pro

 (Narration, soft, over series of shots from an elaborate golf course in Missouri)

This is your league announcer, Milt Goniff, bringing you highlights of the Hollister-Branson Midseason Solo Play, where the only competition is your alter ego.  The earlier OCD rally finally cleared the course, but not before they rearranged the flags alphabetically. 

Today will determine whether our current champion, Evan Palmetto of Kluweville, will become a sandbagger, a stick, a hacker, or a weekend range rat warrior.  Our last round found him mixing a snowman with a double sandy, losing his turkey to a yip and a tap-in, and getting a fried egg in his long island iced tea.   It’s a gimmie that he was the talk of the locker room, especially after that well publicized mixup between his caddie and his cabbie, who tried to drive his yellow Checker down the first fairway.  That was a lot of muscle for a par three. 

Our overview begins on hole three, where our earnest Evan approaches a treacherous five-footer.  The salad bar green is laced with potent and pungent snares, eager to entrap our brave hasenpfeffer.   He’s on the dance floor, but not cutting a rug.   A Texas wedge is pried from the apron – it’s bold, it’s foolish, it’s not even from Texas.

We note the plumb bobbing in the classic grip known as The Reverse Possum and his use of the soft stroke, whispering sweet secrets to the ball.  Very demure. Very mindful.  This is a personal favorite.  Given his history, this putt may break left, right, or fixate on its ticklish dimples.  It drifts, it drifts, and lips in!  A French fatigue move with a bogey save.   He eyes the cup like it’s the last shot of Jack Daniels.  Sublime. Absolutely sublime.

At the Kraken’s Elbow now, combining a murky water hazard filled with the soiled dreams of mid-handicap golfers and dented Yeti tumblers.   It’s an aggressive line – bordering on criminal.  In the past, he may have lost a ball, but retained his dignity—and more crucially, his cart. In this part of the course, that is considered a win.

Now at the penultimate hole, he stands at the edge of the pond — the very site where a pixillated caddie once disappeared after seeing a flash, hearing a tear in the stratosphere, and falling from a tree two hours later without his shoes, but with a pocket filled with unissued Polish zloties.  A poll was taken, but no Pole was found.  

And the yips, he must beware the yips – they’re like the yipes, but with worse gas - Evan stands cramped, but  undeterred.  Or is it on de terred.  No, it’s on de eighth.  Clad in confidence and SPF 50, he makes a clean connection, arcing with promise ... lured by the siren song of the shallows.  But, horrors, another offering to Poseidon.

He surveys the expanse with a steely gaze, and reaches –  not for a modern hybrid, no...but for his father’s prized mashy niblick — The swing—gentle yet misguided, like a valentine sent to the IRS. The ball launches! And it goes, it goes, it goes bye-bye, signaling the last of his cache, and the end of this credit retort.  Or report.  9 holes, 28 strokes, six RBIs, and one for the gipper.  A good day for all.  

Thus ends today’s Mid-season Solo Play – delivered in sotto voce, lost to a light drizzle, and now contractually obligated to speak no louder than a disappointed sigh.  This is Milt Goniff, heading for the 19th hole, the legendary mecca for those seeking Titleists and tequila!  Remember - your putter only thinks it’s the boss.

An easy par 3