A Priest, A Pro and a Pallbearer
by Trinity Chip
My golf game had gotten so bad, Cheron, the mythological Greek figure charged with ferrying the
newly deceased to the promised land, was waiting for me on the shoreline. He told me in broken
English, (it was a new language in his day) he would row my game out to the lake at Sharp Park
and watch it sink. This is the same lake the Sierra Club shunned. I was at my wits end.
Some philosopher, maybe it was Ernest Hemingway, Jacques Cousteau or Jimmy Buffet
said, “The sea, like golf, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever.”
I needed to fix my game quick, fast and in a hurry. But how? I didn’t know if I was in need of
a priest, a pro or a pallbearer. I was flummoxed.
When in a state of absolute despair, it is human nature to lean on a trusted confidant.
I realized then and there, I had to see my bartender.
Mel was tending over her large Saturday herd when I slumped in.. The boys, JPrez, Walter,
Randy, Bernie and the Professor briefly looked up from their drinks, nodded, and returned to
their lively conversation on the art of falconry. In her infinite wisdom, Mel knew something was
amiss. She set down beer and asked me if I had seen Jeramie or Dana yet? She said she had
only seen me this low when I had the shanks. “I knew it was your game. she said, how can I help?
Give me a shot of hemlock, and I’ll be fine, I said. As I spoke those words, alarms sounded sirens
blared. Bedlam ensued.
Realizing the serious nature of my malady, she sent over the Arties, White and Klien, Levi, and called
Swingin’ Mr. Stevens on her “Mel Phone “, a hot line direct to the King. We had a barstool vigil, complete
with the laying of the hands by Scott Renn, It was reminiscent of a southern tent revival without the gospel
singers, the collections and the oppressive heat. They all gathered to pray for my game’s return,
Dressed in a lime green leisure suit, the Goodwill laughed at and then refused, Bill Feeley gave this heartfelt
homely. “Brothers we must unite and help this poor lost soul find his game, It gives me very little pleasure, well
at lest before the check comes, to take his money every week, I feel like SteveO fleecing Cabo Nick, it’s
not a good feeling. It must stop! We have to help him.”
Mel put two beers in front of me, said we weren’t going anywhere until we fix this thing. By the time I
Ubered home, I’d forgotten what was wrong with my game, why it din’t work, and my name. In the words
of Kevin O’Malley, Mel-therapy works again.