The Wind Howled Like A Hammer-The Trials And Tribulations Of Sand-Bagger Johnson

The Wind Howled Like A Hammer-The Trials And Tribulations Of Sand-Bagger Johnson

“Jesus, it is cold as a witch’s tit out here this morning, I can’t get my hands warm for love nor money. I was surprised that after they called a “frost delay” yesterday they didn’t this morning since it seems just as cold as it was then, ’’ frozen Lucky Pierre told the collected gathering on the dreaded wind-swirled first tee as the first foursome of the day went into its round of golf, nine holes as usual in the early morning, at the fabled Pine Pond Golf Course. That gathering included the lanky Casey, the wiry Zowey (formerly Zowy until he objected that the moniker did not show him enough dignity, enough literary dignity if you can believe that, and hence the added “e.” What price vanity.), and the fake-feeble Sand-Bagger (whom we have agreed for non-literary reasons, for the ecologically sound reason of saving cyber-ink to call Sandy after an initial introduction) as they waited on Sandy to do the ancient rite of tossing the tee into the air to determine the day’s teams.

Of course Lucky Pierre with his little “cold weather frost delay” screed was merely trying to cover up for the fact that he was dead-ass wrong about what the pro and the greens-keeper would do this bitter Sunday. He had called in to inform the pro that he would be late because he assumed that there would be a frost delay leaving Casey and Sandy cooling their heels waiting on his lordship. On top of that Zowey had pulled the same lamo excuse, or some variation on that theme claiming he too was late for wrongly guessing about the “frost delay.” Justice, even a smidgen of rough justice in this wicked old world, would have dictated that Casey and Sandy be partners that day and give the late-bloomers a thrashing that they would not soon forget. As luck would have it Sandy drew the injury-prone Zowey and so needed to curb his tongue since the coin of the realm trumped [no pun intended] any residue distress at the late start.           

In a previous screed Sandy had mentioned that sometime when he had time he would give the reader “the skinny” on what was what about frost delays. Since this match was “in the bag” this is the time to deal with this critical question. Of course the average citizen, the average sane golfer for that matter doesn’t have one reason in hell to care anything about the arcane subject of frost delays. But for the hearty all-weather, all-season golfers such as our itinerate foursome the question is a matter of life or death, well, maybe not that far but at least a question of whether or not they would play a round of golf that day. There had always been much speculation among the group, and by others as well, about why one cold day there was a delay and another similar day as had occurred that weekend the play went off on schedule. Casey speculated that it had to do with dew points and clouds. Zowey started talking about winds, clouds and shadows, plus the placement of the moon. Lucky Pierre the one scientist in the group started talking about Zen. Sandy cut all that speculation short with the insightful suggestion that the pro and greens-keeper probably “flipped a tee” to determine whether to call a delay or not. Meaning in Sandy’s enfeebled cold-addled brain that one or the other, or both, wanted an extra roll in the hay with his companion. Sandy insisted that was as reasonable as any of the other wind-addled ideas.

But enough of the mysteries of frost delays for we are now into consequences. There is no need to dwell on the match, or at least the first match since as Sandy had perceptively figured out the thing was a foregone conclusion once the pairings were announced. It is almost a shame to speak of the beating that Casey and Pierre took that morning-let the results speak for themselves rather than to dredge out the painful past hole by hole. Sandy and Zowey beat them six ways to Sunday. Beat them in six holes without working up a sweat. So enough of that.

Here is the funny thing, funny to non-golfers (and those who could give a fig about the subject) but no money exchanged hands that morning, no Abes moved around wallets. (That hard fact will act as summary for Casey). That is where the “press” mentioned in a previous screed comes in. Lucky Pierre called a “press” (seconded by Casey) for the final three holes and wouldn’t you know it but Zowey and Sandy booted the ball down the fairway on the ninth hole and the lucky stiff Casey had his one good hole of the day and saved the day for the frozen pair. Damn. Oh well Sandy said he would explain the intricacies of the press something and it would have nothing to do with dew points, weather-forecasting, cloud cover or Zen. Selah.