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IN
PRAISE
OF
SPRING,
GREEN
FAIRWAYS,
GREEN
CATHEDRALS
AND
GOOD
FRIENDS
Brothers:
Spring
is
here,
and
life
is
good,
so
very
good!
Skipper
pens
his
praise
of
the
Season
and
all
its
trappings
and
delights
from
Punta
Gorda,
Florida,
a
neighboring
community
to
Port
Charlotte.
It
was
the
business
of
deposing
Tampa
Bay
Rays
reliever
Grant
Balfour
which
delivered
me
to
Port
Charlotte
for
these
glorious
two
days
in
the
Florida
sunshine.
It
is
from
this
venue
that
I
share
with
you
the
grand
adventures
of
this
past
week.
ARIZONA
GOLF,
CACTUS
LEAGUE
REVISITED
On
Thursday
morning
last,
Itchie
and
I
jumped
a
nonstop
on
Southwest
to
Phoenix
for
a
four-day
golf
and
baseball
swing
with
B.T.
and
his
long-time
sidekick,
Big
Tommy
(who
could
have
guessed
that
after
four
days
in
captivity
with
“Big
Johnny,”
Tom
Doggett
would
take
on a
new
moniker?).
Armed
with
52
free-drink
coupons
(not
an
exaggeration)
on
Southwest
Airlines,
Itchie
quickly
snapped
his
fingers,
told
our
flight
attendant
that
he
was
her
“Customer
of
the
Day,”
and
ordered
up a
round
of
Bloody
Marys,
admonishing
our
smitten
stewardess
to
“keep
‘em
coming.”
She
did.
Somewhere
over
southwest
Colorado,
Itchie
and
I
rashly
decided
that
we
would
land
in
Phoenix,
catch
another
Southwest
plane
headed
west,
and
keep
doing
so
until
we
had
used
up
all
of
our
(his)
drink
coupons,
hoping
that
we
might
be
able
to
make
it
at
least
to
the
Pacific
Rim.
Regrettably,
this
sensible
caper
was
scotched
when
Itchie
decided
on
touchdown
that
he
didn’t
want
to
relinquish
half
of
his
free
drink
coupons
to
the
Skipper.
Consequently,
Foster
Thielen
and
I
instead
caught
a
ride
to
his
rental
car
lot
and
picked
up
his
beautiful
old
Crown
Vic
(this
would
be
Shamu’s
dream
vehicle)
for
the
drive
into
Scottsdale
to
hook
up
with
B.T.
and
Big
Tommy.
HIJINKS
ON
THE
LINKS
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After getting a tour of B.T.’s posh new condo in the high-roller district of Scottsdale, our foursome jumped into B.T.’s sleek people-mover and headed north to the outskirts of Scottsdale for eighteen holes of golf at Troon North. Other than Sandjigger—who has carded more rounds of golf than the rest of our foursome and the Hot Stove league put together—our scores at Troon North would not properly reflect the good time that was had by all that afternoon, but several of us did our part for the local economy by leaving behind multiple sleeves of lost golf balls on this treacherous desert course.
THE SETUP
Our golf adventure continued on Friday with eighteen holes at Las Sendas, a delightful but fairly uneventful tour of the links, with the usual amount of tomfoolery and braggadocio from the backslapping Purveyor of Dreams, Brother Itchie. Mostly, the afternoon was a setup for the following morning, when we got up early and headed over to The Sanctuary for our final round of golf on Saturday morning. At first, B.T. had to be persuaded even to keep our tee time for this third and final round of golf, as our late night escapades on Friday night on the Scottsdale social circuit (we almost made it till midnight) had B.T. concerned that he would not get his customary ten hours of beauty sleep. Once persuaded to tee it up, however, B.T. a/k/a “The Desert Weasel” donned his Rommel skypiece and a Gladiator mindset and immediately issued a challenge to Itchie for a mano-a-mano contest for supremacy on the links of The Sanctuary. Our Man Foster, never one to back down from a challenge, immediately accepted the proffered stakes and handicap formula, and the rest, as they say, is HSL history.
JOKING THE JOKER
Now provided with a reason to focus on his otherwise mediocre golf game, B.T. began hitting shot after huge shot, as the usually finely-honed game of Itchie began to unravel like one of his cheesy sales pitches. Slowly but surely, Itchie’s wise-guy cracks and ripostes gave way to sweaty palms, mussed hair and muttered expletives.
The fierce competitors made the turn with B.T. holding a slight and precarious lead over the once cocksure, now shaky, Itchie. The tipping point of the match came on consecutive holes on the back nine, beginning with a one-foot (at most), pancake-flat putt for Itchie which, under normal circumstances, would be considered a “gimme” at any level of play. But these were not normal circumstances. After Itchie’s plaintive “You’re not going to give that one to me?” fell upon B.T.’s deaf ears, the rest of the foursome watched on as if witnessing a train wreck, as Itchie’s putter suddenly went flaccid and his wobbly putt drifted off to the left, barely catching a whiff of the cup. Advantage, B.T.
DOWN GOES FRAZIER
On the next hole, lightening struck in almost the same spot, as Itchie was faced with another gimme-no-gimme putt, this one a more formidable eighteen or twenty inches from the hole, but as straight and flat as I-80 between Kearney and North Platte. Before a hushed audience, Itchie stood over the putt with his now untrustworthy weapon, telling himself that this was a putt he should make ten times out of ten, but in his gut knowing that his odds of sinking it were no better than one in a thousand. His gut was right. Beneath a dripping brow and flailing arms, the unmakeable putt was unmade. Two gimme putts, on two consecutive holes, two miserable misses, two points for Scott.
As drama-filled as these two holes were, the best was yet to come. As the golfers headed into the home stretch, B.T. was faced with the same one-foot putt that was a no-gimme for Itchie. After B.T. politely inquired as to whether Itchie wanted him to putt it out, Itchie tersely responded, “Let’s see it.” In perfect mock-Itchie fashion, B.T. stared straight into Itchie’s eyes as he backhanded the putt straight and firmly into the jar, never breaking eye contact for a second. While bringing great joy to the onlookers and great satisfaction to himself, B.T. broke the cardinal rule of play: Never joke the joker!
His feathers ruffled and his pride hurt, Itchie battled back to make the match a contest, and in the end, was able to cut his losses to the point where B.T. could easily be paid off from his burgeoning on-line gambling account, saving him from having to take out a fifth mortgage on the Thielen winter place in North Tucson. So, a happy ending for all. Almost.
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A
DAY
AT
THE
PARK
Being
the
church-going
types
that
we
are,
our
golfing
quartet
attended
Saturday
afternoon
services
at
the
beautiful
Green
Cathedral
known
as
Scottsdale
Stadium,
where
the
hometown
Giants
took
on
the
visiting
Padres’
spring
squad.
Amidst
a
packed
house
of
sun-drenched
baseball
fans
and
surgically
enhanced
young
women
looking
for
future
major
league
husbands
or
presently-wealthy
baseball
sugar
daddies,
we
had
a
great
time
watching
Cactus
League
baseball
in
this
beautiful
jewel
of a
stadium.
As
Itchie
talked
shop
with
his
autograph
stalker
Coleman
buddy,
B.T.
and
I
reminisced
about
an
earlier
visit
to
Scottsdale
Stadium,
when
a
screaming
missile
of a
foul
ball
split
the
distance
between
his
melon
and
Underbelly’s
grape
and
plunked
an
old
boy
sitting
behind
us
with
a
sickening
thud,
fracturing
at
least
two
or
three
ribs.
We
all
sipped
slowly
(not
really)
on
our
first-ever
eleven-dollar
beers
(hey,
I’ll
get
this
round,
I’ve
got
a
fifty
right
here),
and
B.T.
discovered
the
Scottsdale
Stadium
All-That-You-Can-Eat-In-A-Box
China
Buffet,
tearing
into
his
pillow-sized
carton
of
oriental
goodies
like
an
emaciated
G.I.
just
rescued
off
of
the
Bataan
Death
March.
Don’t
get
cheated,
Rommel.
All
in
all,
a
fantastic
day
to
be
alive.
OTHER
FUN
STUFF
Man,
I’ve
never
had
four
days
go
by
so
quickly
in
my
life.
In
addition
to
the
golfing
and
baseball,
we
had
a
good
time
watching
the
Suns-Cavaliers
clash
on
TV
at
Dan
Majerle’s
restaurant
in
downtown
Phoenix,
after
Itchie’s
drinking
buddy
Piakowski
got
stiffed
on
getting
us
free
passes
to
the
game
(What
have
you
done
for
us
lately,
Pike?),
and
after
being
unable
to
buy
scalper
tickets
at
the
Arena.
On
Friday
night,
we
had
an
unbelievable
meal
at
City
Hall
in
downtown
Scottsdale,
and
if
there
is a
recession
or
depression
going
on,
somebody
forgot
to
tell
the
buzzing
crowd
of
big
shots
and
beautiful
people
who
dropped
a
lot
of
coin
at
this
joint.
On
Saturday
night,
after
the
baseball
game,
we
huddled
at a
happening
bar/restaurant
on
Scottsdale
Ave.
and
mocked
all
of
the
aging
lotharios
who
have
not
managed
to
keep
their
good
looks,
athletic
physiques,
and
full
heads
of
hair
like
the
four
of
us,
among
other
topics
of
conversation.
And
after
much
debate,
and
after
some
initial
resistance,
we
all
agreed
that
my
man
Obama
is
neither
a
Lenin-communist
nor
a
European
socialist,
and
that
his
well-crafted
relief
and
reform
packages
will
soon
have
our
great
nation
back
on
its
feet
and
eventually
debt-free.
With
such
a
great
time
had
by
all,
the
group
consensus
was
that
there
will
definitely
have
to
be a
Hot
Stove
League
spring
training
trip
to
the
Valley
in
the
near
future,
with
the
idea
that
all
of
the
HSL’s
beautiful
people
(Possum,
Mouse,
McJester,
Magpie
and
SloPay)
can
stay
at
B.T.’s
tony
digs
in
the
exclusive
enclave
of
Scottsdale,
while
the
rest
of
us
ordinary
clods
can
bunk
down
at
Itchie’s
spacious
ranch
house
in
Gilbert,
just
a
short
three
hour
drive
to
the
south.
Maybe
even
next
season?
Weigh
in,
please.
MEANWHILE,
OVER
IN
THE
GRAPEFRUIT
LEAGUE
As
if
my
four
days
in
the
Valley
of
the
Sun
weren’t
enough
to
make
it a
great
week,
the
rigors
of
my
law
practice
called
me
down
here
to
Florida
for
Wednesday
and
Thursday
of
this
week,
for
the
purpose
of
taking
the
deposition
of
Grant
Balfour—currently
a
pitcher
for
the
Tampa
Bay
Rays,
but
in
2007
a
member
of
the
Nashville
Sounds,
and
the
pitcher
who
threw
a
warm-up
pitch
in
the
visitors
bullpen
at
Rosenblatt
which
eluded
the
bullpen
catcher
and
doinked
a
fan
in
nearby
Section
11.
As
the
defender
of
the
Omaha
Royals,
and
indeed
of
the
concept
of
open-air
baseball
without
a
protective
netting
around
the
entire
ballpark,
I
was
compelled
to
travel
to
Port
Charlotte
to
defend
the
deposition
of
Mr.
Balfour
taken
by
the
attorney
for
the
injured
fan.
While
some
slackers
might
have
thought
it
good
enough
to
simply
attend
this
deposition
by
telephone,
in
my
ceaseless
quest
for
justice
and
civil
liberty
I
felt
it
my
clear
duty
to
make
the
sacrifice
and
travel
to
southwest
Florida
for
the
deposition.
FIRST
STOP,
McKECHNIE
FIELD
After
flying
into
Tampa
on
Wednesday
morning,
my
rental
car,
as
if
pre-programmed,
drove
itself
straight
into
Bradenton,
Florida,
hometown
of
former
Husker
Tommy
Frazier
and
the
spring
training
site
since
1969
of
my
beloved
Pittsburgh
Pirates.
McKechnie
Field,
the
beautiful
baseball-bauble
shown
above,
has
hosted
baseball
since
1923,
and
was
completely
rebuilt
in
1993.
With
a
near-capacity
crowd
on
hand
to
watch
the
Pirates’
contest
against
the
Minnesota
Twins,
I
settled
into
my
bleacher
seat
amongst
the
sun-splashed
Pirate
and
Twin
faithful.
As I
scanned
the
ballpark
to
take
in
the
glorious
sights
and
sounds,
I
immediately
noticed
a
stark
contrast
between
the
fans
at
McKechnie
Field
and
the
gathering
that
I
witnessed
at
Scottsdale
Stadium
last
Saturday
afternoon:
These
Florida
fans
were
mostly
old,
wrinkled,
deeply
tanned
and
apparently
quite
comfortable
in
their
own
skin,
as
opposed
to
the
much
younger,
neo-affluent,
narcissistic,
hyper-augmented
Scottsdale
Stadium
attendees.
It
was
Old
School
fans
versus
See-and-Be-Seen
Pseudo
fans,
a
Cocoon
showing
versus
the
Nip-and-Tuck
generation.
In
about
twenty
more
years,
when
he
is
properly
seasoned
and
grizzled,
B.T.
in
his
Rommel
chapeau
and
a
wrinkled,
too-big
shirt
with
a
mustard
stain
on
the
collar,
will
fit
hand-in-glove
with
the
McKechnie
Field
faithful.
ON
TO
PORT
CHARLOTTE
After
savoring
a
frosty
ale
and
a
bag
of
salted
nuts
and
five
innings
of
splendor
in
the
warm
Bradenton
sun,
I
bade
a
fond
farewell
to
McKechnie
Field
and
its
Chamber
of
Commerce-friendly
gate
attendants
(average
age
approximately
80)
and
hopped
into
my
car
for
the
forty-five
minute
drive
to
Port
Charlotte.
I
hoped
to
catch
the
last
few
innings
of
the
Tampa
Bay
Rays
vs.
Cincinnati
Reds
game
at
the
Rays’
new
spring
training
facility
(Charlotte
Sports
Park,
also
the
new
home
of
the
minor
league
Charlotte
StoneCrabs)
and
especially
that
I
might
get
to
see
that
evening’s
deponent
take
the
hill
for
an
inning
or
two.
Just
as I
walked
into
Charlotte
Sports
Park
before
the
start
of
the
eighth
inning,
the
P.A.
announced
that
No.
50,
the
aforementioned
Grant
Balfour,
was
about
to
take
the
mound
for
the
Rays.
I
quickly
hustled
inside
and
found
a
choice
empty
seat
right
behind
home
plate
and
just
in
front
of
five
crusty,
60-ish
female
Cincinnati
Reds
fanatics,
and
settled
in
to
watch
Balfour
retire
the
side
in
order,
the
final
two
hitters
by
strikeout.
Mission
accomplished.
I
stuck
around
for
the
rest
of
the
game,
won
by
Tampa
Bay
by
the
score
of
7-3,
and
after
picking
up a
couple
of
souvenir
baseballs
for
Joe
and
Will,
it
was
back
in
the
car
and
down
the
road
a
bit
to
the
Holiday
Inn
Express
for
Mr.
Balfour’s
deposition.
BALFOUR
AS
WITNESS
 Grant
Balfour
in
person
is a
polite
and
pleasant
young
Australian
with
a
great
Aussie
accent.
He
testified
about
the
warm-up
toss
that
got
away
from
his
bullpen
catcher
that
fateful
night
of
June
8,
2007,
when
he
was
warming
up
to
pitch
against
the
Omaha
Royals,
and
was
profoundly
apologetic
for
his
role
in
the
ordeal.
Thankfully,
he
resisted
the
invitation
of
the
plaintiff’s
attorney
to
throw
the
Royals
organization
under
the
bus
with
respect
to
the
issue
of
the
safety
of
the
bullpen
setup
at
Rosenblatt
Stadium,
and
his
deposition
testimony
was
probably
not
the
outcome
determinative,
smoking
gun
bit
of
evidence
for
which
plaintiff’s
counsel
was
hoping.
While
he
did
testify
that
many
of
the
other
bullpens
in
which
he
has
pitched
in
the
numerous
major
league
and
minor
league
parks
he
has
played
in
during
his
career
are
situated
differently
than
the
bullpen
at
Rosenblatt,
he
stopped
short
of
criticizing
the
setup
at
Rosenblatt
as a
safety
hazard
or
stating
that
the
Rosenblatt
bullpens
are
the
only
ones
where
the
bullpen
pitchers
throw
the
ball
in
the
direction
of
the
stands.
He
also
testified
that
he
was
in
an
early
stage
of
his
warm-up
when
the
accident
happened,
and
hence
was
not
yet
firing
92-98
mph
peas
at
the
time
he
uncorked
his
errant
toss.
After
the
deposition,
Balfour
was
nice
enough
to
autograph
the
two
Rays
baseballs
that
I
bought
for
Joe
and
Will,
and
so
the
two
of
them
can
now
lay
claim
to
having
autographed
horsehide
from
a
World
Series-pitching
pitcher.
Pretty
nice.
EPILOGUE
Thanks
for
bearing
with
me
as I
have
reminisced
about
the
terrific
week
that
just
was,
a
week
of
green
fairways,
green
cathedrals
and
great
friends.
Praise
God.
It’s
hard
to
imagine
anything
better.
Skipper
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