Other than Cott taking a well-dressed man by the throat on the way up the elevator at The Waldorf, the boys enjoyed the night out. An ill-advised comment, from a weekend wannabe, toward Tina eliminated any chance of a complicated good-bye.
Our pro-am team came from the
His brother landed in our foursome, another blessing. Before seeing his smooth swing and high handicap there were concerns over sibling ego wars, dropped immediately when his first shot left the clubface headed for
The brothers told me that our fourth man transformed himself into a nervous wreck with the help of low-end vodka and lower end women. The unknown agencies that run The Cott approved. He smiled.
They rejected my offer to help their various peculiarities on the range after the round. Cott assured me that my invitation went unheard on their sprint to the bar.
The team finished second and we took third individually. The mood justified ignoring the two-hour ride back to the Poconos. True champions find time to tell war stories. The first two crippled them. I said, “That story reminded me of one that happened at Fernwood.”
The big guy never took his eyes off of mine and still flagged down two waitresses. I said, “One day this dig it's and baby type guy waltzes in the pro shop with rings on every finger and a semi wanna be Elvis hairdo. He was loud and he wanted what he wanted.”
The drinks arrived. No one seemed distracted.
“Under tow was his innocent looking girlfriend with center-fold credentials. She had a deep
Cott’s laugh disrupted interplanetary communication.
“The guy was a player. He wanted everything, a golf pro's dream. ‘Get my girl some golf shoes, golf bag and a good set of clubs.’ My heart went to where hearts go when the mother load walks in. Now he says, ‘She's gonna need a glove.’ That’s all well and good but with werewolf finger nails, the fitting looked tough until The Cott here cut the fingertips off of all five fingers of a fresh out of the wrapper glove, my man. Then the guy said, ‘We'll need a couple dozen balls, tees and a scorecard.’ So there I am adding as fast as I can and come up with a number like the national debt of
My terrible trio and faithful caddy pounded the table just loud enough to get a look from the manager.
“The poor bastard hands me a grand and heads for the door. Two seconds later he makes an about face and says, ‘OH, yeah, we need a cart for eighteen holes. What da ya need pro?’ I said, ‘Twelve bucks.’ Sifting through his money he looked up and said, ‘How much for three holes?’ ”