When Mickey Mouse Ruled The Night-The Trials And Tribulations Of Sand-Bagger Johnson-Part 8 

 

Talking to no one in particular as the golf foursome in the van heading down to Mickey’s land, down to the old-time Orlando Disney courses, Palm and Magnolia (he forgot the order in which they would be played just then in any case one in the morning and one in the afternoon since he was hot on the trail of memory lane), he mentioned that he had had dream that night about a Mouse-ateer, a girl not Annette something, the dark haired one [Jerry Jeff the driver of the van on this six rounds in four days tour of Central Florida, okay, okay Central Orlando if there is such a place shouted out “Fuinicello.”] “Yeah, that’s right. Not her though the skinny kind of still a stick one with brown hair Melody, Melody Darling I think.” Roger the Dodger sitting in the front seat passenger side acting as navigator for the tour since he was the only one with a Smartphone wit GPS connectivity chortled out “Melody Dowling, you might have been thinking she was your darling in that silly dream but tell us about it, tell us about your chaste childhood desire to get into her pants if you ever found yourself in Mickey’s world. I had a crush on her too since I figured I had no chance with Annette and this Melody was really a stick until a couple of years later she filled out, filled out quite nicely. You know she wound up doing a few porn films when she got older, before she feel off the radar, you know giving guys a blow job on screen trading in on her Mickey days when she and the guys got older and could articulate why the female Mouse-eteers were distracting us so when we tuned in to the Walt Disney Hour every Sunday night show. Had quite a following including me when she went porn, probably somebody’s nice old grandmother now.”  

“Guys, at six in the morning I don’t want to hear about girl crushes, porno queens or kindly grandmothers, just keep quiet until we get to the clubhouse so I can get a few minutes shut-eye” murmured Earl the Pearl, the last up, last out guy in the group. “Hell I grew up in L.A. and went down to Anaheim to check things out and the average Mouse-eteer girl usher was hotter than any of those bimbos you saw on television and ready to go too if you approached them right but let me sleep and I will fill you in some other time”

Finally getting a chance to have his say Sand-Bagger said “Hey, I don’t want to hear about what happened to Melody later, half of the child stars in Hollywood wound up worse than being porno stars and I don’t want to hear about hot tour guides either. What I had my dream about, after fixating on Melody for a bit was how much the Disney shows, and others like them helped create our little world when we were say ten to twelve, maybe thirteen the times when we were clueless about why we had all these funny feelings about girls which we hadn’t had before and which gave us a little knot every time we saw Annette, Melody all those girls that we wanted to be our girlfriends especially after Elvis came along and we didn’t mean a thing to the real girls that we had to deal with (or not deal with which is perhaps a better way to put it).”

“How we longed for Sunday night to come by and avoid the dread of Monday morning for an hour, hour and one half with our little secret television pleasures. You know somebody could, maybe already has, write a book about that particular time, that “golden age” time when things were tough, tough around our house [Roger: ours’ too.] but come Sunday night, poverty, shyness, physical discomfort, acne, lack of coolness, all that stuff we worried about the rest of the long week kind of took a holiday, and you know I don’t think since that time I can’t remember having that cocoon around me like that when I needed it, had to face the world straight up ever since. I’ll bet I could…..”

Just then Jerry Jeff stopped the van in front of the security outpost to “sign in” in Disney world. Everybody catch the irony when Sand-Bagger morosely stated, “See what I mean signing into a damn gold course down in Mickeys’ land. Was that Walt’s ultimate dream for us.”

But enough of philosophizing for we need to get to Casey’s summary before he too begs for a few minutes of quiet to nod off. Palm course results (meaning morning round results-meaning better of the two course that day results): Earl apparently after having had that quiet time to nod off took the vaunted putting honors-three bucks. Swept Roger front, back and all-six bucks, took Jerry Jeff front and all, two buck. A “winning day” but Sand-Bagger now fully recovered from the shock of Melody’s fate wondered, wondered to himself, what she looked like with her clothes off back then in her porn days when she “played the flute” as the guys in the old neighborhood used to call giving a guy oral sex.        

 

Remembering Easter 1916-With The Shamrock Irish In Mind

Remembering Easter 1916-With The Shamrock Irish In Mind

By Jack Murphy

Funny how all the guys I used to hang around with at Harry Variety, then Doc’s Drugstore, and finally at Tonio’s Pizza Palace in our school days around Riverdale about thirty miles south of Boston would claim some Irish heritage every time Saint Patrick’s Day came around. Even guys like Ray Rizzo, a stone-cold Italian guy would go on and on about how, maybe, about six generations back one of his forebears stopped in Ireland and left a little something behind, a little bundle so to speak, and thus could claim kinship to Irish Republican Brotherhood (we were all in the thrall to that name as well as the Irish Citizens’ Army and the then blessed Volunteers even though none of us, the fully Irish included, knew anything about those organizations and the roles they played except the late lamented “half-arse Peter Paul Markin of blessed memory.) That last place, the high school hang-out, the Class of 1970 hang-out, Tonio’s Pizza by the way was owned by Tonio a very cool guy from Italy who was we latter found out was “connected,” connected big time who took our friend Frankie Riley, a full-blooded Irishman with parents just off the boat from Cork a few years before as his “son” to show just how deep the Irish roots went in our part of town, the poor but proud Atlantic section, the section of town nearest to the ocean and the Nappy River from which the town got its name. 

Every time we have a reunion of whoever is left from the good old days in the neighborhood somebody has inevitably brought out the Saint Patrick’s Parade in South Boston “skip school” prank (we are now at the age where the assumption that somebody might not be able to attend because of death or serious illness is a commonplace unlike our first one ten years out in 1980 when “no shows” were because of work, travel or “working out” with some new girlfriend or wife under some silky sheets the latter a fine reason for “no show” then).

Here is how it played out. In those days Saint Patrick’s Day (and the parade) were actually celebrated on March 17^th whatever day of the week it was unlike now when it is the closest Sunday to the 17^th  and in Suffolk County (Boston and whatever other towns made up the county) that was a holiday. Not because of blessed peacemaker Saint Pat but because of Evacuation Day, the day the bloody British were kicked out of Boston by the fearless rebels who liberated this country from John Bull’s damn yoke. A situation worthy of a holiday on its own hook but in then Irish-dominated Boston everybody knew the real reason, the parade and the fun and drinking associated with it.       

That was fine for Boston, and for Boston school kids because they had the day off anyhow. But we were in Norfolk County (these county names showing the still malignant effect of English rule) and did not have the day off-except if your parent, your mother really, sent a note-before March 17th-saying you had permission to take the day off in observance of Saint Patrick you were considered excused (there were enough Irish in town to force that concession). Usually it was easy for the kids with Irish surnames to get by but what about Jimmy James and Bob Alexander and Ray Rizzo. Well they would play “hooky,” take the day off and take their chances.

This is the punch-line though that half-arse Irishman, meaning only his mother was Irish in that case, Peter Paul Markin, mentioned before for years would claim that he always took those days off, made it a point of pride to tell one and all that he had skipped school. And we dutifully believed him, although in those days if we had thought about it we should have been suspicious because he loved school and was nothing a bookworm and nerd whom we derisively called the “Scribe,” since that was so contrary to what he was about. A few years after graduation one night a bunch of the old crowd was sitting in Jack’s over in Cambridge and Peter Paul began with his “skip school” story. Jimmy Jenkins was there who lived on the same street as him challenged Peter on that skipping, challenged everybody. The way to prove it, prove the skipping school of not the attendance at the parade, was to ask for a transcript of you attendance record from the Riverdale School Department which kept such records on a daily basis for each student then in ink before computers made somebody’s work very easy. Peter’s transcript (a couple of others too)-no days off in high school-period. That’s a true Irishman for you in lots of ways, full of the blarney.     

Of course later after graduation when we could go to Southie without fear, drink hard liquor until we fell down, chased and were beaten down by the treacherous Irish girls, especially the redheads whom I was attracted to in those days, you know the ones who came into the barroom or nightclub with ten dollars and their girlfriends and left with the same, you know exactly who I mean the novena girls with the rosaries kissing their lips and the Bible between their knees. God how did we survive all of that until we learned to ween ourselves off the Irish girls and go find nice Jewish and WASP girls, hell, Yugoslav girls, who actually liked sex, liked to get and receive it for crying out loud without remorse or recrimination, praise be. Didn’t think it was a sign from God or from the Holy Mother to leave a guy with a sore dick from that “no action” scene those red-headed Irish girls learned at Sunday school or some dastardly place like that. It wasn’t until later either, much later that we found out some of those novena with a Bible between their knees girls were “putting out” but just not for the boys in the neighborhood so they could keep their nice girl reputations. Damn them.

Now that was all about the ethos, or what passed for the ethos in the old neighborhood but as we grew older, as “the troubles” in the North blew up and it was a question of taking sides, of supporting the liberation struggle, of supporting the “boyos” up there (meaning for anybody who is clueless the six counties, what is now called Northern Ireland) we got more serious about the roots of our heritage. Got what Peter Paul Markin called “religion” on the Irish question and him right if only a half-arse Irishman and started to do more than attend Saint Patrick Day parades and drink as ocean of rotgut Johnny Walker Black whiskey, started to shift away from My Wild Irish Rose and Rose Of Tralee to Through The Foggy Dew, Kevin Barry and The Rising Of The Moon, while drinking that Johnny Walker. Yeah, it was the music that got things going, and not just the song and be done with it but to listen to what the lyrics said, what event they were commemorating and why. Why Wolfe Tone’s United Irishmen rose, rose together, why they did the poor croppy boy in, why Kevin Barry faced the hangman’s noose. Yeah, the music changed us in many ways, changed us from Happy Hour Cape Cod Saturday and Sunday afternoon Shamrock Irish to something more, something grander.                   

But above all it was a half-arse Irishman, an Anglo-Irishman, William Butler Yeats who put the matter to us- who gave us “a word,” who told us about Easter 1916 (a very different proposition than to honor old Saint Pat) in a short poem of that name. Told us about men (and lately as the centennial has been upon us about the bravo woman as well), men of ordinary clay who saw a chance to tweak the British lion’s tail and took it. Told us about the extraordinary transition that a group, granted a small group but hasn’t that ever been the case made in a short time to cause a stir- to bring forth a “terrible beauty.” And these days these centennial days not a man among us from the old neighborhood who is still with us doesn’t think in the back of his mind about the music in old Pete Markin’s  voice when that half-arse Irishman would go on and on about the old sod, about the times of heroic action among our kin. Our day will come.

   

Hit and Hustle-The Trials and Tribulations Of Sand-Bagger Johnson

 

“You know we seem to have been on these Interstate 4 for everything we have been trying to do down here, I bet Disney had the government construct the damn thing as a favor to them because there was no for having part of the Interstate run through this swampland in the interest of national defense which was the original purpose Grandfather Ike had the damn system constructed for. You know to make a quick escape from the cities, if and when, the Russkies decided to drop the big one. No way they would have been interested in sending back Orlando to the Stone Age or is it forward to the Stone Age,” babbled a semi-coherent Sand-Bagger Johnson to no one in particular from the confines of the back seat of the van Jerry Jeff was driving this darkest hour before the dawn as they headed to Celebration, the town and the golf course. This was to be the last of the six rounds in four days that he and his companions, Jerry Jeff, Roger the Dodger and Earl the Pearl were to embrace upon in their whirlwind golf package deal in the wilds of Orlando. The course in front of them according to Jerry Jeff was the one course of the six that would seem like a New England course that the four were used to playing and Sand-Bagger was anxious to get there and see for himself. (He was also anxious because as usual for the better part of his adult life now he would get in a private having a whirl when he was rushed for time as he would be in to catch the flight back to New England that he, and Roger the Dodger, would be taking quite soon after the expected finish of the round.)

“How long will it take us to get there, get to Celebration, and what were they celebrating in this God forsaken place,” he then chirped out to Roger the Dodger in particular since he had acted as navigator for the duration having the only Smartphone with GPS among the four. “Oh about twenty-five minutes according to Sissy,” Roger chuckled back. Sissy the name for the female voice that was giving them directions on the phone who was as often wrong as right in her directions for some reason. The chuckle was in recognition of a standing joke between the four that every place they wanted to go from their golf package-provided townhouse in Champion-gate was about twenty-five minutes to one half an hour. There must have been some “plot” hatched to make that time period to get anywhere so, probably by some whizz kid at Disney who figured that a carload of antsy kids could only last that amount of time before arriving at some vast parking lot at some expensive theme park to “enjoy” the day the current theory etched out the previous night under the influence of a few drinks while waiting endlessly waiting for a table at the pub they were going to eat at, Jaxx’s which actually was pretty good.

As the sky began to barely get lighter when the van full of golfers entered Celebration, the town Jerry Jeff mentioned that on his prior trip he had noticed that the magnificent houses along and around course were an eclectic mix of architectural styles from Tennessee Williams’ decadent southern slave-owner mansion to Federal period (you know Bullfinch) to Gothic and all in between. What was missing from the landscape was that Florida Modern that had its heyday around the time of Miami Vice drug lord housing as if this was to be an oasis away from endless strip mall modern that had infected almost every place passed during the previous series of twenty-five to thirty minute sojourn s through Central swamp Florida.

Surprisingly the course for the most part was as advertised by Jerry Jeff as a throw-back New England course with plenty of trees bordering each hole (mostly absent in dredged from the swamp Orlando), with the exception of the 17^th hole which had the menacing name of Alligator Run-and deserved that reputation. A nice transition course back to New England reality.      

But enough of Sissy, architectural designs, and monsters from the swamp Casey wants his summary. Tough day for the Bagger, twin losses across the board to both Jerry Jeff and the Dodger. Lost too to the Pearl for the booby prize putting contest. Here’s the kicker though-when the Bagger asked the Dodger how long it would take to get to the vast Orlando airport complex he said, well, you know what he said. And that said it all about Central Florida golf.                                          

   

Confessions Of A Stand-Up Guy-Preston Sturges’ The Great McGinty-A Film Review  

DVD Review

By Sam Lowell

The Great McGinty, starring Brian Donlevy, Akim Tamiroff, 1940  

Recently I wrote in a review of another of Preston Sturges’ films, the dark comedy Unfaithfully Yours that those readers familiar with my music, book and film reviews in this space know that when I come across musicians, authors and movies that I go crazy over I tend to go out and grab every available other piece of material done by them. So in a short period of time, for example, you would get maybe ten reviews running of the legendary hard-boiled detection writer Dashiell Hammett’s work (and maybe more for older work as some previously unknown work like some of Hammett’s very early writing see the light of day whether they should have or not). Right now I am “hot” on the trail of the “king” of the 1930s and 1940s romantic screwball comedy writers and directors Preston Sturges after having viewed his classic Sullivan’s Travels with Joel McCrea and Veronica Lake (she of that then 1940s fashionable tuff of hair hanging over the right eye) and now several other offerings.

The film under review, a short writer-director “political/social commentary” film The Great McGinty, is not anywhere in the same league for political and social commentary as the formerly mentioned McCrea-Lake film, but had a rather good performance by lead actor Brian Donlevy as the literally rags-to-riches-to rags McGinty of the title and another stand-out performance by Akim Tamiroff as the world weary and wise big city boss running the politicians like a yo-yo. Although the film lacked enough subtle and witty dialogue to, well, pay off a single grafter.    

That “single grafter” reference as was the “concert hall” reference in Unfaithfully Yours (and the “cup of coffee” reference in another recently reviewed Sturges film, Christmas In July) was no accidental remark since this film centers on the ups and downs, that rags to riches to rags career mentioned above of the great McGinty. That career started out simply enough when the “from hunger” Great Depression hobo McGinty was recruited to “vote” for the current mayor in a big city and get paid for doing so. The trick: whomever he was voting in place of was dead, gone from town or incapable of voting for some other reason adding measurably and an surely to the mayor’s election. A favorite and time-tested trick in the old times of ward-heeler politics. McGinty’s trick: vote early and often and in the process make a small killing, small killing for a “from hunger” hobo which brought him to the attention of Mister Big, the boss of bosses, in city politics (the role played by Tamiroff remember).

That “beautiful friendship would lead McGinty to some fame and fortune, mainly fortune as he rose in the political world all the way to Governor of the state, if you can believe that. Of course the down side as I already telegraphed with that rags to riches to rags wa that McGinty was telling of his ups and downs story down in some sunny South American spot where he had been forced to flee to in order to avoid going to jail for signing all those sweetheart contract for “bridges to nowhere” and the like. He was telling this autobiographical to a fellow ex-pat who was also on the lam for some illegal caper along with his girl as McGinty served them drinks. By the way guess who was sitting in that same barroom. Yeah, that Mister Big who also had to take it on the lam when the heat came down. A cautionary tale for sure.         

But wait a minute as I pointed out above (and elsewhere as well) this is a Preston Sturges vehicle and down below the surface plot is a tale about getting ahead in this wicked old world, about big cloud dreams, and about America being different, that last best hope of democracy that Lincoln was always going on and on about. But also about romance, a staple of Sturges’ films. The romance here centered on an ambitious secretary, a divorcee with kids, whom McGinty married originally as a marriage of convenience for an up and coming politician (although the divorcee part in real life would have been problematic in those days) but flowered into a real romance. Of course when McGinty was forced to flee south of the border he was forced to give her and the kids up too. Another cautionary tale. An okay film but see Sullivan’s Travels if you want Sturges’ best witty political and social commentary on the goings-on in the Great Depression 1930s in this country.       

Down In Mickey’s World –The Trials And Tribulations Of Sand-Bagger Johnson-Part Seven

“Is there any reason, any reason on this good green earth to come down here to Orlando except to play golf, play golf 24/7 if you can so do so, if you can stand the pace, so you can say you had some reason to show up here,” Sand-Bagger Johnson spouted forth from the back seat of the van he was occupying as the dawn was set to come up on another Florida golf day. An Orlando, Florida golf day, a Dizzy (oops) Disney day as he and his compatriots headed toward Disneyland, toward Mickey’s world. Toward Mickey’s world as one of the occupants, Earl the Pearl, who had suffered through previous bouts of Orlando 24/7 golf madness in the vicinity told him when he had inquired about how big a deal the huge Disney project there in the center of Florida was in the area. Big was the reply and as they, Sand-Bagger, Earl the Pearl, Jerry Jeff driving the van (and the one deserving of kudos for taking care of the arrangements for the golf package, housing, van and six round of golf included, airplane fare separately arranged by each party), and the felonious Roger the Dodger (felonious with a golf club in his hand) passed the “Welcome” sign visible for miles around.

They would travel a many a mile and still be in Mickey’s world as Jerry Jeff explained that he knew having been a “good” father he had taken his kids down to Orlando when they were young and knew firsthand how big the property was after shelling out plenty for every damn venue. (Sand-Bagger thinking to himself that thankfully he had only to deal with the California Disney madness since his kids had been raised in that state, he a part-time dad after a messy divorce, which seemed pretty benign compared with what he was confronted with this day-and dawn was still only working its way up the sky scale).

This day’s efforts were to be centered in Mickey’s world, the two fabled old style courses, Palm and Magnolia, managed by the Arnold Palmer Company a name seemingly assuring them of some good golf experiences. As they entered the property (a word that Jerry Jeff and Roger used constantly referring to any bit of land since they were business school professors so what would one expect) and after being cleared at the menacing security outpost arriving at the clubhouse they were immediately inundated with all the Disney comic cartoon character hyp. Sand-Bagger had expected that. What he did not expect when after signing in, grabbing their carts and heading to hit some practice balls to warm up in the early morning light was when they had teed up their balls on the first hole and saw the tee-markers were in the form of Mickey Mouse’s profile. That stark fact would be the case on all thirty-six holes that they played that day and the unusually non-plussed Sand-Bagger spent half the day commenting on that “crass” commercialization. Down in Mickey’s world was right, right as rain.            

Summary for the iterant Casey-one victory two-two-two against Jerry Jeff (as in two dollars front nine, two dollars back nine, two dollars the whole match), a similar lost to Roger the Dodger left him even on the day and only a last minute twenty foot putt saved the day from being a total wash-out as he took a buck off Earl the Pearl in their putting bet. Sand-Bagger once again longed for his regular foursome at Pine Pond where five dollar side bets were not assumed to be highway robbery or some nefarious golf hustle. Selah.                               

A Wronged Gee Righted-Preston Sturges’ Christmas In July

 

DVD Review

By Sam Lowell

Christmas In July, starring Dick Powell, Eleanor Drew,

Recently I wrote in a review of another of Preston Sturges’ films, the dark comedy Unfaithfully Yours that those readers familiar with my music, book and film reviews in this space know that when I come across musicians, authors and movies that I go crazy over I tend to go out and grab every available other piece of material done by them. So in a short period of time, for example, you would get maybe ten reviews running of the legendary hard-boiled detection writer Dashiell Hammett’s work (and maybe more for older work as some previously unknown work like some of Hammett’s very early writing see the light of day whether they should have or not). Right now I am “hot” on the trail of the “king” of the 1930s and 1940s romantic screwball comedy writers and directors Preston Sturges after having viewed his classic Sullivan’s Travels with Joel McCrea and Veronica Lake (she of that then 1940s fashionable tuff of hair hanging over the right eye) and now several other offerings. The film under review, a short early writer-director fluff film Christmas In July, not anywhere in the same league as the formerly mentioned McCrea-Lake film, had a rather wooden performance by lead actor Dick Powell and not enough subtle and witty dialogue to, well, fill a coffee cup (although there were plenty of Three Stooges slapstick type antics but they subtracted rather than added to this effort).   

That cup of coffee reference as was the concert hall reference in Unfaithfully Yours no accidental remark since this film centers on the ups and downs of a budding advertising man, Jimmy, played by a young and not very sophisticated Dick Powell (unlike his stellar role as Philip Marlowe in Murder, My Sweet, the film adaptation of Raymond Chandler’s crime detection classic Farewell, My Lovely). He, and millions of other contestants, have entered Maxford House Coffee’s (get it) contest to see who can come up with a catchy slogan to promote that brand of coffee for a then Great Depression-era huge sum of twenty-five thousand big ones. Jimmy figured his chances were pretty good although his fiancé, his girlfriend, the practical girl-next door sort, threw plenty of cold water on his chances. She of the “just let us get married and have a parcel of kids and pets” sort while Jimmy soared with stars-in-his-eyes ambition. Just wanted to get a chance at the big time in this wicked old world stacked, stacked big time, against little nine to five cold-water flat tenement guys like him.

Then magic hit-he won the big prize, or like in many Sturges’ vehicles, thought he won the prize but as he will find out later his fellow workers at his workplace had played a rather cruel joke on him. They had sent him a telegram via Western Union stating he has won the grand prize, that 25K, large K and he fell for it. So did his boss who offered him a big executive job. Yeah Jimmy fell for it but Jimmy was a heart of gold guy (to go with that heart of gold girlfriend) and staked his whole tenement-etched neighborhood to gifts to show the kind of fellow his was down deep. Of course such largesse meant shelling out plenty of dough and when the gag got discovered Jimmy was back on cheap street, back on the mean New York no dream streets. Tough break, so sorry.

But wait a minute this is a Preston Sturges vehicle and down below the surface is a tale about hard-working people getting ahead in this wicked old world, about big cloud dreams, and about America being different, that last best hope of democracy that Lincoln was always going on and on about. So in the end Jimmy hit twice-no three times. He got out from under that big stretch at Ossining that he was going to be doing for taking that big 25K check under false pretenses. He got to keep that up from under advertising job that got him out of the office pool-with a big help from Betty giving her man her all in front of his boss-what a gal. And as if to prove the talent pool just keeps expanding in tidal wave America-Jimmy did really win that 25K. Yeah, Sturges, pure Preston Sturges at his feel-good best.          

The Dawn Patrol Cometh-The Trials And Tribulations Of Sand-Bagger Johnson-Part Six

Sand-Bagger Johnson was sky-high as his usual foursome of Lucky Pierre, Zowy (formerly known as plain old ordinary vanilla Zow but from here on in with some literary license an added “y” to spice up his name as this series develops), and Casey headed for the first time this golf season into their normal dawn patrol first out tee-time spot as the storied Pine Pond course was begging to see the light of day. That first out position was not the reason, or not the big reason, that he was sky-high but rather that this round, this nine holes, would be a final tune-up for the opening tournament of the season, the prestigious Road Run Tourney. All of the foursome except the lanky Casey who against all reason had decided that running through the highways and by-ways of the fairly liberal city of Cambridge in his underwear or whatever those misbegotten “share the road with a runner” fanatics were wearing these days was more important than showing his manly links prowess in the tournament. A tournament where the club professional picked the two-person best-ball teams rather than the normal golfer-picked team selection which might have scared him off.         

Sand-Bagger sensed that Zowy and Pierre were sky-high too as he took a tee out of his windbreaker pocket to determine who would make up the day’s best-ball match play teams. (We can drop the Lucky part now that we know that any earnings by Pierre would hinge on luck and not that manly prowess previously mentioned.) This day the ancient tee flip custom would give Sand-Bagger Zowy as his partner and he smiled to himself that Pierre and the hapless Casey might as well fork out their Abes now and be done with it. They had already beaten this pairing earlier in the pre-season and today would be no different as he prepared to tee up his golf ball into the barely seeable first fairway. (Abe by the way meaning righteous Father Abraham, you know Lincoln who brought us through the Civil War and got himself minted on a five dollar bill for his efforts).

And strangely enough old Sand-Bagger had been right. Well almost right except Pierre had his irons on fire and Casey avoided his usual quota of triple bogies (three over par on a hole, okay). A quick recap-first hole halved after the putter twisted or something out of Sand-Bagger hand preventing a well-deserved win. Second and third hole to Pierre-Casey (hereafter P-C) two up Sand-Bagger thinking  Zowy and he had them right where they wanted them. Fourth hole halved when Casey booted one-P-C-still two up. Sand-Bagger reached deeply within himself to win five with a par and he could sense they would now come roaring back-P-C one up. Six hole halved after Zowy, looking at the hole from both sides now, drained one to tie the lucky stiff Casey who clicked in a simple no big deal two-footer. One up-Pierre had a great iron shot on seven parred and won after Sand-Bagger booted the ball all over the place and Zowy didn’t look at his par putt from both sides. P-C two up- Eighth hole lucky stiff Casey drained one for a par after Sand-Bagger had done the same- Match P-C.

Matches come and go here is the real deal. Sand-Bagger called a “press,” that means in simple terms that the ninth hole would be a separate match. The beauty of the press is that if the match winners don’t take the press then that is considered a loss-bang even. See golf guys are pretty smart when you think about it. A par by Sand-Bagger matched by Pierre gave each team a “push” (meaning no dough on either side). The important thing though was that S-Z stopped the bleeding always a good thing to leave the course with in preparation for future battles.

The inevitable Casey summary-An Abe apiece for Pierre and Casey. Abe by the way meaning righteous Father Abraham, you know Lincoln who brought us through the Civil War and got himself minted on a five dollar bill for his efforts. Did I already say that?