Tiger in the tank?

I attended my first PGA tour event this past Friday with my brother in law. It was the Bridgestone Invitational at Firestone Country Club in Akron. Brian (the brother in law) and I occaisionally play golf together. Like most Americans, my golf game, like most games I play, is best described as comic relief for any unfortunate spectators and or passers by. First of all, when I buy any kind of golf equipment, I tend to keep it in service for way longer than the manufacturer's recommendations. An example comes to mind. Surprise. Once, while on vacation in North Carolina with the OU group, we played in a little father-son outing at a local course. In the group were the same guys that went to Tahiti with me, and our sons. Before packing, I had been informed that we would be playing golf at least once so I loaded up my Bobby Jones era clubs and my Foot Joy knockoff golf shoes and brought them along on vacation. Now, I had purchased these shoes about the same time as the Kennedy administration and kept them in the gargage, dragging them out to the course a maximum of three times a summer for several decades. The rest of the time they spent their days and nights in a garage surrounded by the forests of northeast Ohio. This means that they were frequently as damp as a republican's palms.
The golf outing at Myrtle Beach started out as usual, with me spending most of my time in the various hazards and trouble spots of the course. My slogan as a golfer is "I've never met a golf ball I couldn't lose." I was the kind of golfer that played three times a year, whether I needed to or not, and then had the nerve to get frustrated and angry because I had scores in quintuple figures. I used to overheat calculators trying to keep my scores. Typically, whichever golf club I chose to use for a shot, wound up going way farther than the ball I had just hit with it. This day was no different and I entertained the other guys and the kids, especially the kids, with periodic outburst of very colorful adjectives and by demonstrating my considerable prowess in hurling golf clubs into different area codes. As if my play wasn't humorous enough, around about the 5th hole, I took a swing at a ball and noticed a strange sensation at my feet, while I actually hit the shot very well. I watched my ball soar into the air on a line directly at the pin looking almost like a shot by Jack Nicklaus. Then I looked down at my golf shoes. Remember the golf shoes. Having been imprisoned in my garage soaking up the humidity for a minimum of 15 years, these shoes decided to revolt. They revolted by actually dissolving in the middle of my swing. The stitching evaporated like a congressional budget bill, and there I was, in the middle of the 5th fairway, in my stocking feet. For my companions in the group, this was the last straw. They collapsed in varying degrees of hysterical laughter at the sight of me blowing out my golf shoes like a couple of retread tires on the highway. Craig's son Scott literally fell out of his golf cart and rolled around on the grass like he had just seen Larry, Moe and Curley for the very first time. Have you ever tried to hit a golf ball in your stocking feet?
What does this have to do with going to the Bridgestone Invitational golf tournament? I'm coming to that. My brother in law has a crush on Tiger Woods like a little schoolgirl. He is not alone. Millions of fans, many of them golf fans, swarmed around Woods like he was a Beatles concert. Brian insisted we follow him around the course, never mind that all of the other great golfers on tour were there, they might as well have been invisible. "Why don't go over there and watch Michelson or Cink or Singh? They're pretty good players."
"Are you kidding," Brian replied, incredulous at such a suggestion, "Tiger is the greatest golfer of all time." So we trudged along to various greens, fairways and tee boxes to catch Tiger scratching his nose, sipping his bottle of whatever or polishing his Buick keys. For over 5 hours we chased Tiger along with the population of several Asian countries.
Finally, I stopped begging Brian to go see some other players, especially since he wore me down by getting me free hot dogs and beer at some hospitality tent. We finally went to the last green that Tiger was going to be playing that day, primarily to see if we could see him make a birdie, because he had birdied every hole in history, except the 7 or 8 holes we saw him on that day. Anyway, we managed to fight our way to the restraining rope by the last green, primarily by saying very loudly, "Hey, Tiger's going into that portajohn over there." It was like Moses parting the Red Sea and we snuck to the front of several gazillion other fans acting like, "Who said that?"
Evidently Tiger's first shot on that hole was a little bit in the rough on our side of the hole as we had absolutely no way of seeing him hit his second shot for the humanity surrounding him. "Greatest golfer of all time," Brian fawned every few seconds. Anyway, something happened because even though we couldn't see him, there were ooohs and aaahs from thousands of spectators and everyone's head turned toward the green like a wave coming ashore. Everyone peered intently at the green and flagstick waiting for Tiger's ball to alight and give the throngs a reason to erupt in cheers. Not that they needed a reason. I think he could have drawn cheers with a well placed fart with this bunch. Anyway, we watched and waited. And waited. And waited and much to the crowd's disbelief the ball never came down. "My God, we thought, he pulverized the ball into oblivion."
Wrong! It seems the "greatest golfer of all time" had done what countless millions of duffers before him had done. He hit the ball about 100 yards over the green, beyond the rough, the gallery, grandstands and onto the roof of the clubhouse. Nobody knew what to do. Stunned whispers at this amazing development sprinkled throughout the multitudes. The officials, clearly at a loss, debated a ruling for about three days, before they decided Tiger would have to drop his ball about 6 times zones away and hit his shot. I am not making this part up, but it took so long to find his ball and decide what to do, that they had to let a group play through. This has never happened before to my knowledge.
Anyway, Tiger dropped his ball and had the ignominious distinction of hitting a ball while standing next to a portajohn. I felt vindicated and less inadequate at this development. How the mighty had fallen. Tiger promptly put the shot on the green and saved a bogey. I'm not sure how he could have done that, with all the distractions and other crap around, (pun intended) but evidently, Tiger is the "greatest golfer of all time."
I am writing this having just watched the final round of the tournament on TV and guess who won? Bob Hope. Just kidding, Tiger won about a four hole playoff when he could have collapsed several times. But you know what I think? I'll bet Tiger couldn't play a round with no shoes on!

Love
Dad

Bats in my belfry

"Let's move to the woods," she said.
"It will look like a postcard in the winter," she said.
That was the logic behind my wife's desire to move to Concord Twp., Ohio, an up and coming Cleveland suburb who's motto is "Leave no acre of land unsubdivided." I mention this because as our township's housing expands exponentially, living space for most of God's other creatures decreases likewise. When that happens, they look for other places to dwell and/or snack. Evidently, our house has become known in the animal kingdom as "Bob's Diner."
Especially for bats. Not the Louisville Slugger type, but the rodents with wings type. Now don't get me wrong, I have nothing against rodents that a little nuclear bomb couldn't take care of, but as of late, these creatures have taken a perverse liking to our home. Over the last year we have had several of these things get into the house and fly around making Sandy and I and occaisionally my daughter, well, idiots. I know for Sandy and myself it's not a long trip.
Most of the time it is usually just one bat at a time, but we did have a rodental honeymoon couple visit us for a couple of days, as evidently, Niagara Falls was closed.
Since moving here, we have always had the occaisional visit from squirrels, chipmunks, field mice and the odd snake here and there. That's to be expected, we live in the woods for crying out loud. But bats give me the creeps more than watching Nancy Grace on TV.
Here is the typical scenario. I will be sitting in the living room watching a ballgame or enjoying a periodical and I will become aware, not by noise, but by peripheral vision, that I am not alone. Sandy is almost always in bed when this happens, so I figure either she has sprouted wings or there is a bird in the house. Birds in the house would be a treat. At least they make noise when they are around so you know what in the hell they are. Bats, on the other hand, are silent, stealthy creatures that you don't know are there until they cause serious cardiac arrest. Sandy, having heard me say a very bad word, indeed, will venture out of the bedroom to see "What is it this time?" I will tell her about the bat, or she will see it fluttering around like a giant moth, and she will scream like George Bush being told Bill Clinton is his daddy, turn around and flee back to the bedroom, close the door and tell me to get it out of the house.
I don't know when I became the official critter remover in our home, but sometimes it is best not to ask these questions but to act. And act I do. I proceed to do my best Groucho Marx walk, scurrying around trying to open doors and windows thinking this little creature, with a brain the size of a congressman, will get the idea he's not welcome and go voluntarily out of the house. You look like Groucho walking because bats do not fly so much as dive bomb. It can be quite a vision, a fat little bald guy, crouched over scurrying around trying to find a net, sheet, towel or any damn thing that I can catch Dracula in, and get him the hell out of here! Sandy, ever helpful, can be heard upstairs behind closed doors yelling, every two seconds, "Is he gone yet?" Meanwhile my dog, Ginger, has by now gone into full "there is something going on here" mode, and reacts the way she always reacts, by barking her brains out. I like to think Ginger is a smarter dog than most. She isn't. When she finally sees the bat, kamakazeing around the living room, she somehow thinks the helpful thing to do will be to try and jump up and catch it.
Invariably, the pandemonium dies out, the bat gets tired of laughing its fool head off at us, usually lands on the window blinds and takes a nap, making it a little easier to put a towel or something on it and shooing it outside. Crisis over for the time being.
So kiddies, if you're ever thinking of moving to the country, remember, God gave every silver lining a dark cloud. Gotta run, I heard there's a Bela Lugosi film tribute on TV.

Love
Dad