I wanted to be embarrassed by it, but who the hell am I kidding, I don’t get embarrassed by anything. And everything is funny.

It was probably “Fuck.”

Ronnie, my brother-in-law, was caddying for me in the qualifying tournament for the New Jersey State Fourball Championship. The Fourball Championship gathers some of the best amateur golfers in the state. It is the most important round of golf I’ll play all year.

My partner and I weren’t hitting the ball very well. I was inconsistent off the tee, never quite knowing where my ball was going to end up; and I was hooking many of my irons. My partner had his own problems. Still, we were playing well enough on and around the greens to put up decent scores.

In general, I don’t let my emotions run too low or too high. On the golf course, I make a point of not being elated after good shots or letting the bad shots upset me. I find that the best way to play golf is with a certain amount of apathy and detachment.

Which brings me to “The Fuck Moment.”

We were halfway through our back nine when I hooked a ball under a tree (see “A” below).

While I had a swing, Tree B was between me and the green (see D). So I had to aim at Tree C and try to intentionally hook the ball on or near the green.

I had an about 1-in-10 chance of pulling this off. Long odds, but I gave it a try.

The ball was still in the air when I yelled, “Fuck!” My ball headed straight for Tree C and came to rest underneath it. Dead. Well. Fuck.

I didn’t get mad because I missed the shot. Golf, especially at my level, is a game of who can play their miss-hits best. Ben Hogan, one of the best ball strikers ever, said that he only hit about seven perfect shots in a round. What chance do I have?

No. I readily accept my miss-hits. However, I have a strong logical mind. And the moment the ball left the club and didn’t turn, I woke up and realized that I didn’t use my mind very well. Fuck.

Here’s what my mind told me:

1. “You’re dead. Punch the ball into the middle of the fairway inside 100 yards, probably inside 50 yards. And take your chances getting up-and-down for par. Your chances at that point are probably 50/50.” (Smart mind. Right play.);
2. “You only have a 1-in-10 shot of hooking the ball onto the green, maybe even less than 1-in-10. The Rule of Thumb is to only play shots that you know you can pull off 9-in-10 times. Punch the ball into the middle of the fairway. (Smart mind. Right play.);
3. “Don’t let your last thought be even vaguely negative or positive at a negative target. When setting up at the tree (C above), don’t let that be your last thought or your target. Your body is dumb, you’ll say, “Aim at the tree and hook it” but your body will only hear “Aim at the tree.” You know it happens all the time. (Smart mind.)

As I said, the ball went right at Tree C. Never curved. The body did what it was told. I never listened to my mind.

Fuck.

FUCK!

:::

Turns out we missed the cut by one stroke. Just like last year. That shot was one of the turning points. If I make the smart play, we have a chance to go on. The round has a half-dozen pivotal moments like that. Sometimes I made the right decisions; sometimes I didn’t.

The next thing you know these groups are telling the Others who they can hang with, which god they can talk to, and who they can have sex with. Groups will desperately try to make everyone else follow their Secret Handshake Rules.

Sometimes when Others don’t follow their rules, the groups try to force the Others to live by their rules. They might even threaten the Others with a pointed sticks or fondle their women if they don’t give lip service to the Secret Handshake Rules.

(These Others sometimes form their own groups just to have enough Molotov cocktails to hurl at the first group. Things always get out of hand. The next thing you know Rodney King is pleading on television, “Can’t we all just get along?” And, of course, the answer is “No.”)

A lot of people have been lost or killed because they didn’t comply with the Secret Handshake Rules.

Hell, I’m only a member of one association: the Bey Lea Golf Association. Even that makes me nervous. We wave our private parts at people who get tee times after 8 o’clock in the morning and don’t play winter golf. We haven’t fondled any of their women yet; we do ogle at them though.

I hate groups. I haven’t met a group I’m really comfortable with.

Individuals, well that’s a different story.

There are few people that individually I don’t get along with. I only ever really hated one guy, but I got along with him. He did, however, get decapitated in a highway accident — so I’m very cautious about who I really hate. I might have some sort of super power; I’ve got to be careful.

So I don’t do “community” well. Not in the meat-world. Not in the cyber-world.

I’ve joined several cyber-groups over the years. Usually I just get to the sign-up page and then my participation rapidly peters off after that.

That said, I joined a cyber-community yesterday. Well, it’s not so much a community as it is a … umm … discussion group? … err … virtual hangout? … well … I don’t know. There’s only a few of us there and nothing has happened yet.

I think I was the first to sign up. I signed up with two demands requests:

1. I’d like a seat in the back under a dim light near where the bar back hangs. I prefer it be reserved for me — which shouldn’t be too difficult, because no one else will want to sit there; there’s a draft.
2. I want a cool title like “Key Master.” Maybe “Supreme Potentate” or better “High Muckety-Muck.”

Both of my requests were granted. I think I’m an ahem Administrator.

Go check it out. I’m going to give it a shot. I hope you will too.

Stop by The Pub. Tell Harry I sent you.

First beer is on me.

:::

LATE ENTRY: In keeping with the pub theme over at The Pub, I requested the title Bar Back.

I got it.

This was emailed to me in the above fashion. Likewise, I’m passing it along.

Hey, readers of of KINGS and carnies, you’ll like this:

Differences Between Men & Women

NICKNAMES

• If Laura, Kate and Sarah go out for lunch, they will call each other Laura, Kate and Sarah.
• If Mike, Dave and John go out, they will affectionately refer to each other as Fat Boy, Godzilla and Four-eyes.

EATING OUT

• When the bill arrives, Mike, Dave and John will each throw in $20, even though it’s only for $32.50. None of them will have anything smaller and none will actually admit they want change back.
• When the girls get their bill, out come the pocket calculators.

MONEY

• A man will pay $2 for a $1 item he needs.
• A woman will pay $1 for a $2 item that she doesn’t need but it’s on sale.

BATHROOMS

• A man has six items in his bathroom: toothbrush and toothpaste, shaving cream, razor, a bar of soap, and a towel.
• The average number of items in the typical woman’s bathroom is 337. A man would not be able to identify more than 20 of these items.

ARGUMENTS

• A woman has the last word in any argument.
• Anything a man says after that is the beginning of a new argument.

FUTURE

• A woman worries about the future until she gets a husband.
• A man never worries about the future until he gets a wife.

SUCCESS

• A successful man is one who makes more money than his wife can spend.
• A successful woman is one who can find such a man.

MARRIAGE

• A woman marries a man expecting he will change, but he doesn’t.
• A man marries a woman expecting that she won’t change, but she does.

DRESSING UP

• A woman will dress up to go shopping, water the plants, empty the trash, answer the phone, read a book, and get the mail.
• A man will dress up for weddings and funerals.

NATURAL

• Men wake up as good-looking as they went to bed.
• Women somehow deteriorate during the night.

OFFSPRING

• Ah, children. A woman knows all about her children. She knows about dentist appointments and romances, best friends, favorite foods, secret fears and hopes and dreams.
• A man is vaguely aware of some short people living in the house.

I heard him interviewed on the radio yesterday. He’s going to testify in front of congress about why schools need to keep their physical education programs. I agree with Richard.

Actually, whatever you think of Simmons, his weight-loss/fitness strategy is simplistic but sound: “Don’t eat too much! Small portions! Move your body!”

But that’s not what I wanted to talk about. What got me was Richard was talking about being bullied while he was in school. Almost in tears (Richard Simmons is almost always almost in tears), he recounted the events. Events, he said, that still leave scars today.

Richard went back to sixth or seventh grade. He was chubby. His first name was Milton (since changed to Richard). Every day after school, Moose would hit him in the head with a baseball bat until young Milton fell to the ground.

“Every day?” asked the interviewer.

“Every day.”

“A wooden baseball bat?”

“Yep. Wooden.”

“On the head? You’re lucky your not dead.”

“I have a hard head.”

Young Milton eventually stood up to Moose. Reasoned with him, “I’ve never done anything to you and you’re hurting me.” Not Jerry Mitchell in 3 O’Clock High, but the kids cheered him and Moose stopped using Milton’s head as a baseball.

I understand this would follow Milton Teague Simmons forever. I too was bullied one year. Seventh grade, just like Milton.

Seventh grade was the first year of Intermediate School. No longer did we pal around as a class in one classroom with one teacher as our leader.

We travelled from class to class and from teacher to teacher. We were on our own. Instead of a desk and classroom closet to keep our coats, lunches, and books, we had a lockers.

My locker was on the other side of the school. Everything I did, except for gym — my classes, the bus — was on one side of the school; my locker, the other.

After the last bell rang, I had to run all the way from class to the other side of school, drop my books off in my locker, collect my coat, and run back to catch the bus. This had to be executed with the timing of an NFL wide receiver’s out pattern; if the timing is off, incomplete pass. Or, in my case, I missed the bus.

Mike.

His name was Mike. He was twice the size of the average seventh grader. He was so large he had two satellite students orbiting around him — their names are lost in time. But, like the moon, they were always there saying things like, “Yeh. What are you going to do now? Huh? Tell him, Mike. Tell him what he’s going to do. That’s right. Tell him, Mike.” And they’d laugh. Yellow curs.

Somehow Mike, this dimwitted toad, figured out that I was on a tight schedule. The focus for his seventh grade year became, “Make Jim miss the bus.” His tools: physical blockaids, knocking books from my hands, slamming my locker closed the moment I opened it, taking something of mine and not giving it back, throwing me to the ground, verbal harrassment, and other assorted bully crap.

I didn’t go Jerry Mitchell’s route, nor even Milton Teague Simmons’ route. I didn’t stand up  to my tormentor. No, I went the weenie route. I stopped using the locker. Like a homeless middle schooler, I carried everything I had in a huge duffle bag. My books, all of them. My coat. My lunch. My gym clothes. Baseball cards. Superball. Everything.

Mike. The toad.

I’ve told my wife, and I’m serious, if we are walking down the mall and suddenly you turn toward me and I’m not there. And you look back and I’m on top of some fat, tub-of-goo of a person, flailing my fist at his head. I’m on top of Mike. Don’t try to stop me. He’s getting everything he deserved.