Every April for the past 20 or so years, I've headed for Kiawah Island, South Carolina for that last great bastion of male camaraderie, the golf trip. Same guys, same courses, nothing much changed from year to year.
Perfect doesn't much call for alterations.
Well, chalk up another victim of the great recession. I had to do something prudent and surrender my place.
Here's a brief excerpt from the book:
We head out in two vans and immediately fall into the comfortable and well-worn routines guaranteed to wind each other up and get the taunts flying. Roger’s quite sure I’ve neglected to procure a wide enough variety of non-alcoholic beverages—he has amassed seven years of sobriety and can somehow maintain it around us during this week of nearly indiscriminant consumption. I play the indignant and unappreciated martyr. Gary goes as the pious reformed one as he outlines the dietary restrictions brought on by—count ‘em--five coronary vessels having been rootered and rerouted just three months prior. Kevin, too good-natured to take an unprovoked swing, says laughing, “Golf trip.”
Each day passes in a blissful blur. We wake up at 7, pull out at 8, tee up at 9, lunch at 1, watch The Masters until 6, dine at 8, and call it a night by 11. Gone is any evidence of the outrageous behavior that once threatened life and limb, frightening woman and children---condo wars with rooftop maneuvers by commandos armed with quart-sized water balloons, one a.m. golf missions that left a tee box badly disfigured, indoor freestyle climbing of walls, fireplaces, ledges et al, and Guts games where small fortunes changed hands. John Madden faithfully brings the cards and chips each year but I’ll be surprised if they even make it out of the case.
I won't be there to see if they do or not. We're having a west coast, tee-it-up-at-Rancho golf trip this year.
Rub Of The Green by Brock Walsh will, with a little luck, appear in bookstores soon.
Contact brockwalsh@gmail.com
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