Teacher Alert! If you are a teacher, you might be able to relate to this one. I wrote it just before the 2004-05 school year. It's a little different in that I wrote it from my wife's perspective.
Mud Wrestling With Harry Wong
The bell rings and my heart leaps. It is the first day of school and in a few seconds I will hear the growing crescendo of the multitudes as they trod toward the initial class of their penultimate high school year. Will yesterday’s nervous apprehension be a case of “much ado about nothing”, superseded instead by my current feelings of guarded optimism? Or will the day end with me lying on the floor, trampled by their attitudes and apathy. Teenage Wasteland indeed. Well, I’ll soon know because...here they come.
The television program 60 Minutes has always provided me with a mixed bag of emotions. While I get totally absorbed in the investigative pieces and Morley Safer’s occasional light and humorous forays, I am also abruptly reminded that it is six o’clock on Sunday and the weekend is, for intents and purposes, over. Monday, and school, is lurking just around the corner. This Sabbath is especially traumatic because tomorrow is the first day of a new school year. To add to my anxiety, the feature article this evening is an hour long interview with (yawn) Hillary Clinton.
“I’m Mike Wallace”.
“I’m Ed Bradley”.
“I’m Debbie Crane and I am in deep doo-doo because I am unprepared and don’t have a clue what I’m going to do tomorrow.”
I’ve managed to fritter away the entire summer without giving Junior English or Creative Writing a second thought. And just where did the summer go? I vaguely remember watching a fireworks display...then there was a teaching seminar...followed by Gifted/Talented training...now this.
Instead of enjoying Andy Rooney’s ponderings and reflections about the proliferation of 1960's and 70's rock anthems being used to advertise everything from Cadillacs (Led Zeppelin) to laxatives (James Brown), I am running through the house trying to find my new Whaley two-line grade book.
“Here it is,” my husband (also a teacher) calls out, “right where you put it last week - in the laundry room under the bag of cat litter. You know, Dear, if you would just be a tad bit more organized you wouldn’t have these last minute anxiety attacks.”
He smiled.
I seethed.
“Yes, I know,” I thought. “And if you weren’t so anal about having everything done six weeks in advance, then I wouldn’t have to suffer through another of your condescending lectures about my ‘chicken-with-its-head-cut-off’ style of management!”
“Thank you, Honey!” I chirped. Loosely translated, this meant “I hate you!”
Since he was going to be of no help in alleviating my pre-game jitters, I needed another source; another person who would help me ease my dual traumas of depression (the lost summer) and apprehension. I needed divine guidance so I dropped to my knees.
WWWD - What Would Wong Do?
Having tossed and turned through a mostly sleepless night, I find myself sitting in my classroom, awaiting the entrance of the little angels. In lieu of sleep I spent the night rehearsing everything I needed to do today. I made a mental checklist and then arrived at school an hour early.
As my husband dropped me off he said, “Be sure to be stern and don’t sway from your rules.”
“Yeah, and don’t forget to choke on the breakfast I made you. Wait...I never fix breakfast.”
Oh well, I digress. As I visually check out my room everything seems to be in its proper place. The seating chart is on the overhead, the rules are posted, the posters with inspirational slogans are plastered everywhere - the room is neat, clean, and organized. And so am I.
I’ve got on a smart outfit and my opening speech to the kids is on note cards on my podium. I’ll just cover the basics today - introductions, pronunciation of names, a tour of the room, and an overview of rules and procedures.
“Five minutes,” I mutter to myself, nervously confident that I’ve prepared myself to meet the onslaught. Harry Wong would be proud. “Bring ’em on!”
“How was your first day?” my husband asks as he picks me up from school. “Mine was great. I already know all my kids’ names!”
Amazing. After twelve years he still doesn’t know my mother’s name! “It was fine”, I respond.
Actually it was better than fine. My first-day anxieties were unfounded. The kids were wonderful. The new administration seems very supportive. I’m exhilarated, but exhausted. Our new schedule requires us to teach all day on “A” days with no conference time. Therefore, my feet hurt and my voice is hoarse. I stayed in my room during lunch and now I’m starving.
“Let’s stop at Pei Wei’s for supper. I’ll buy”
“Consider it done,” Rick replies. “You can give me all the gory details while we eat.”
The details, for the most part, weren’t at all gory. Except for First Period. There I stood in my finest Harry Wong pose, hand outstretched to greet the eager learners.
The first student to enter was Courtney Something. She smiled, said hello, and went promptly to her desk. Several kids, mostly boys, reacted to my smiling mug and welcoming arms as if I had leprosy. They grimaced, avoided eye contact, and skulked to their seats.
Once everyone was in their proper place I called roll, trying to associate names with faces. Now, I’ve never been good with names, but a few of these stood out.
There was Red-Headed Boy, Black Girl (black shirt, black pants, black hair, black fingernails, you get the picture), and of course, Whats-His-Name. The inventive and melodic African-American names wer in abundance - Terroderick, Shaqqualla, etc.
And then was Ngh Trng. I didn’t even try to pronounce it. I asked him to say his name and the reply sounded just like it was spelled - “Ngh Trng”. The only thing I could think to say was “I’m glad you’re here.”
If life was the Wheel of Fortune, his parents forgot to buy a vowel.
I made it, Harry! I made it! Regardless of how many years I teach, the first day is always the toughest. I always put myself through a gamut of anxious emotions as fears and trepidations abound.
“What will they be like?”
“Will they like me?”
“Will I make a positive first impression?”
For, you see, it is all about me. Whether or not I have a good day; whether or not the school year is successful or a disastrous; it is ultimately in my hands and in my head.
And I can do it.
No offense Mr. Wong, but it’s all about WWDD - What Would Debbie Do.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Goodbye Norman
Norman Winkle died Saturday, the 6th, my birthday. Thanks to the technology of Facebook, we were able to reconnect with Norman in the last weeks of his life. Like many, I didn't even know there was anything wrong...until I got a message from Mary Haverkorn. All I knew was that he was one of many names and faces from my past years at Lake Worth.
I played football with him in 6th, 7th, and 8th grades. I am so glad that I was able to share some old 6th grade football pictures and memories with him.
Our thoughts and prayers are with his family and we can only look forward to that day when we will see that boyish grin smiling at us in Heaven.
I played football with him in 6th, 7th, and 8th grades. I am so glad that I was able to share some old 6th grade football pictures and memories with him.
Our thoughts and prayers are with his family and we can only look forward to that day when we will see that boyish grin smiling at us in Heaven.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Quiet Desperation
Quiet Desperation
It’s been said, by Thoreau, that most men lead lives of quiet desperation. In my four decades as a “man” (post teenager) I have found this to be sadly true. We are desperate to fulfill the many roles that society deems are ours. We are burdened with multiple responsibilities and saddled with goals that often appear unattainable or, at best, just out of reach. And in our efforts to satisfy these pressures and demands, often subconsciously self-imposed, we persist in bearing the onus quietly alone.
Do we ever achieve the desired status of devoted husband, loving father, loyal friend, competent employee, benevolent boss, worthy Christian, solid neighbor, and stalwart citizen? Or are our attempts to do so more of a hit-or-miss proposition. Perhaps we shouldn’t even try. The big picture is just too daunting. By trying to be all things to all people, we can’t help but fall short. Besides, your friends aren’t really concerned if you’re a good boss. The people you work with don’t care about the status of your relationship with your wife and kids. Your religious affiliation doesn’t matter to your neighbors. They just want you to keep your lawn mowed.
Often an addendum is added to Thoreau’s words. Not only do most men lead lives of quiet desperation, but they also “go to the grave with a song still in them”. This is the part that bothers me. While I grudgingly accept the “quiet desperation” of life, I am genuinely afraid of leaving this earth without having made a difference or established a legacy.
It is one of the reasons I write. In addition to being a therapeutic form of self analysis, writing is an avenue by which I can share my thoughts not only with those of the here-and-now, but also with those to come. I know nothing of what my Dad thought. His quiet desperation was never shared with me. All I know of the fifteen generations of ancestors I have traced is names, dates, and places. With the exception of a few wills, I have nothing tangible to tell me anything about them. I guess their day-to-day existence was of more concern to them than the chronicling of their views of life.
My musings and ruminations, therefore, are part of the legacy I leave to Claire, Cooper, Lulu, their future cousins, and the branches of the family tree that have yet to sprout. My random thoughts are some of the “songs” that I have chosen not to take to the grave. As for the events of my existence, if I was a good Dad, a good husband, a good Christian, a good coach, a good teacher - then my “singing” was worthwhile; I can die knowing that I didn’t take it all with me, that I made a positive impact on the lives of others.
Dying. I recently came to the realization that it isn’t death I am afraid of; it is the fear of not living. How tragic it would be to end up like Stevens, the butler in “The Remains of the Day”. He was so dedicated to his profession that he neglected to participate in the pursuit of happiness. He missed out on fulfillment, on love...on life. Much better, but somehow equally frustrating, was the plight of the title character in “Schindler’s List”. After going to extraordinary lengths to save the lives of over a thousand Jews, he lamented that he could have done more. Despite heroic efforts that affected the lives of generations, he felt that he had left songs unsung.
And so, we live our lives, desperately hoping that, in the end, we will be favorably judged by our maker. But, yoked with self doubt, also knowing that we will invariably come up short when we judge ourselves.
It’s been said, by Thoreau, that most men lead lives of quiet desperation. In my four decades as a “man” (post teenager) I have found this to be sadly true. We are desperate to fulfill the many roles that society deems are ours. We are burdened with multiple responsibilities and saddled with goals that often appear unattainable or, at best, just out of reach. And in our efforts to satisfy these pressures and demands, often subconsciously self-imposed, we persist in bearing the onus quietly alone.
Do we ever achieve the desired status of devoted husband, loving father, loyal friend, competent employee, benevolent boss, worthy Christian, solid neighbor, and stalwart citizen? Or are our attempts to do so more of a hit-or-miss proposition. Perhaps we shouldn’t even try. The big picture is just too daunting. By trying to be all things to all people, we can’t help but fall short. Besides, your friends aren’t really concerned if you’re a good boss. The people you work with don’t care about the status of your relationship with your wife and kids. Your religious affiliation doesn’t matter to your neighbors. They just want you to keep your lawn mowed.
Often an addendum is added to Thoreau’s words. Not only do most men lead lives of quiet desperation, but they also “go to the grave with a song still in them”. This is the part that bothers me. While I grudgingly accept the “quiet desperation” of life, I am genuinely afraid of leaving this earth without having made a difference or established a legacy.
It is one of the reasons I write. In addition to being a therapeutic form of self analysis, writing is an avenue by which I can share my thoughts not only with those of the here-and-now, but also with those to come. I know nothing of what my Dad thought. His quiet desperation was never shared with me. All I know of the fifteen generations of ancestors I have traced is names, dates, and places. With the exception of a few wills, I have nothing tangible to tell me anything about them. I guess their day-to-day existence was of more concern to them than the chronicling of their views of life.
My musings and ruminations, therefore, are part of the legacy I leave to Claire, Cooper, Lulu, their future cousins, and the branches of the family tree that have yet to sprout. My random thoughts are some of the “songs” that I have chosen not to take to the grave. As for the events of my existence, if I was a good Dad, a good husband, a good Christian, a good coach, a good teacher - then my “singing” was worthwhile; I can die knowing that I didn’t take it all with me, that I made a positive impact on the lives of others.
Dying. I recently came to the realization that it isn’t death I am afraid of; it is the fear of not living. How tragic it would be to end up like Stevens, the butler in “The Remains of the Day”. He was so dedicated to his profession that he neglected to participate in the pursuit of happiness. He missed out on fulfillment, on love...on life. Much better, but somehow equally frustrating, was the plight of the title character in “Schindler’s List”. After going to extraordinary lengths to save the lives of over a thousand Jews, he lamented that he could have done more. Despite heroic efforts that affected the lives of generations, he felt that he had left songs unsung.
And so, we live our lives, desperately hoping that, in the end, we will be favorably judged by our maker. But, yoked with self doubt, also knowing that we will invariably come up short when we judge ourselves.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Old Friends
Old Friends
Last week Keith Sims died of colon cancer. He was a good friend of mine in Jr. High and High School but I hadn’t seen him since our 20th reunion. He was married for 35 years to Jane Endres, another Lake Worth classmate. There were only about 100 of us in the class of 1970 and now another is gone.
Seeing his name and picture in the obituaries was a jolt that I am still coming to grips with. I don’t know why Keith’s death has bothered me so much. Maybe because I am reminded about our mortality. Perhaps because I truly regret having lost touch with people who provided so many great memories.
Throughout our lives we are shaped and influenced by those who populate the various paths we traverse. As a kid there were the neighborhood urchins with whom I constantly played with. My teenage years were made richer by those special souls like Keith who filled the classrooms, football fields, dances, and other memorable events of a time dominated by innocence, awakenings, acne, and hormones.
My fifteen years with the Southland Corporation brought not only gainful employment but also a new group of companions - folks in their 20s and 30s with whom we shared new homes, new babies, and the other accessories of young yuppiehood.
Next came the Cougar football years. For ten years life revolved around me as a coach, Steven as a player, Stacey and Laura as cheerleaders, Shanda on the drill team, and Debbie as the perfect football wife/mom/booster. Our friends were the parents of our kids’ friends and the world was maroon, grey, and white.
At each crossroads I have surrounded myself with people who, for the most part, are like me. Now, on the backside of 50, my circle of friends are the Homies - a group whose genesis was bible study but who have evolved into much more. We share common life experiences and a common desire to find meaning in a time marked by religion, reflection, grandchildren, margaritas, and the vagaries of age.
The transience and impermanence of our relationships is part of the cycle of life. These people, considered friends at the time, are actually temporary players in the dramas and comedies that make up the saga of our time on Earth. No one is more important to us at that particular time but, with the passing of the years, each is relegated to the dusty pages of photo albums and then stowed away in the attics of our life.
There have been many people like Keith who have enhanced my life, from growing up with Freddy Zwald to growing old with Harry Berney. In between, there was Mark Long, Billy Brown, Wayne Howard, Richard Moore, Mark Braun, and so many others who helped define who I am today.
"Preserve your memories...they’re all that’s left you"
(Also attached is a poem I wrote in 1982, in commemoration of my years with the Southland Corp. and dedicated to the men I worked with from 1972-1982. However, it applies to each group of "guys" I have known.)
Last week Keith Sims died of colon cancer. He was a good friend of mine in Jr. High and High School but I hadn’t seen him since our 20th reunion. He was married for 35 years to Jane Endres, another Lake Worth classmate. There were only about 100 of us in the class of 1970 and now another is gone.
Seeing his name and picture in the obituaries was a jolt that I am still coming to grips with. I don’t know why Keith’s death has bothered me so much. Maybe because I am reminded about our mortality. Perhaps because I truly regret having lost touch with people who provided so many great memories.
Throughout our lives we are shaped and influenced by those who populate the various paths we traverse. As a kid there were the neighborhood urchins with whom I constantly played with. My teenage years were made richer by those special souls like Keith who filled the classrooms, football fields, dances, and other memorable events of a time dominated by innocence, awakenings, acne, and hormones.
My fifteen years with the Southland Corporation brought not only gainful employment but also a new group of companions - folks in their 20s and 30s with whom we shared new homes, new babies, and the other accessories of young yuppiehood.
Next came the Cougar football years. For ten years life revolved around me as a coach, Steven as a player, Stacey and Laura as cheerleaders, Shanda on the drill team, and Debbie as the perfect football wife/mom/booster. Our friends were the parents of our kids’ friends and the world was maroon, grey, and white.
At each crossroads I have surrounded myself with people who, for the most part, are like me. Now, on the backside of 50, my circle of friends are the Homies - a group whose genesis was bible study but who have evolved into much more. We share common life experiences and a common desire to find meaning in a time marked by religion, reflection, grandchildren, margaritas, and the vagaries of age.
The transience and impermanence of our relationships is part of the cycle of life. These people, considered friends at the time, are actually temporary players in the dramas and comedies that make up the saga of our time on Earth. No one is more important to us at that particular time but, with the passing of the years, each is relegated to the dusty pages of photo albums and then stowed away in the attics of our life.
There have been many people like Keith who have enhanced my life, from growing up with Freddy Zwald to growing old with Harry Berney. In between, there was Mark Long, Billy Brown, Wayne Howard, Richard Moore, Mark Braun, and so many others who helped define who I am today.
"Preserve your memories...they’re all that’s left you"
(Also attached is a poem I wrote in 1982, in commemoration of my years with the Southland Corp. and dedicated to the men I worked with from 1972-1982. However, it applies to each group of "guys" I have known.)
One of the Guys
(written in 1982)
One of the Guys
It’s been said that as a man goes through life,
Next to children and a loving wife,
The thing most treasured until life ends
Is the relationship between good friends.
For some, these friends are hard to find,
But I feel that life has been most kind.
For one pleasure that I’ll always prize
Is having been one of the guys.
In ten years of work they all paraded;
Some mere names that have quietly faded.
But a special few have stood apart;
They’ve left a mark on mind and heart.
For these friends and I, time cannot sever
Our common kink that’s lasting ever.
We formed a bond I now realize
Can only exist between the guys.
Our mutual work brought us together,
And at first, of course, we knew not whether
The faces before us could be holding
The joys that soon would be unfolding.
It did not matter from whence we came;
Our newfound goals were now the same.
And we knew with whom we’d fraternize -
We had each become one of the guys.
But Toffler was right when he did state
That change and transience is our fate.
For our working union was abated
As some left or were relocated.
Within all of these rearranges
Only the cast of characters changes.
Just other names to recognize
As the newest members of the guys.
And so its gone in these ten years,
That playing ball and drinking beers
Has been an aspect of employment
That has brought to me the most enjoyment.
Ten years that I have gladly shared
With men about whom I have cared.
Their friendship I now idolize,
For I’ll always be one of the guys.
One of the Guys
It’s been said that as a man goes through life,
Next to children and a loving wife,
The thing most treasured until life ends
Is the relationship between good friends.
For some, these friends are hard to find,
But I feel that life has been most kind.
For one pleasure that I’ll always prize
Is having been one of the guys.
In ten years of work they all paraded;
Some mere names that have quietly faded.
But a special few have stood apart;
They’ve left a mark on mind and heart.
For these friends and I, time cannot sever
Our common kink that’s lasting ever.
We formed a bond I now realize
Can only exist between the guys.
Our mutual work brought us together,
And at first, of course, we knew not whether
The faces before us could be holding
The joys that soon would be unfolding.
It did not matter from whence we came;
Our newfound goals were now the same.
And we knew with whom we’d fraternize -
We had each become one of the guys.
But Toffler was right when he did state
That change and transience is our fate.
For our working union was abated
As some left or were relocated.
Within all of these rearranges
Only the cast of characters changes.
Just other names to recognize
As the newest members of the guys.
And so its gone in these ten years,
That playing ball and drinking beers
Has been an aspect of employment
That has brought to me the most enjoyment.
Ten years that I have gladly shared
With men about whom I have cared.
Their friendship I now idolize,
For I’ll always be one of the guys.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Why Should I Be Moral
WHY SHOULD I BE MORAL?
(I wrote this one when Shanda was in college. Her professor had asked the class to write a paper answering the above question. As I had done for the kids since they were in Jr. High, I did a bit of ghost writing.)
According to Webster, to be moral is to be ethical, virtuous, and righteous and to conform to a standard of behavior. Morality then is not some inherent trait that one is born with but rather a lifestyle choice. Assuming that I know the difference between right and wrong, why should I choose "right"?
One obvious reason is because of the legal implications of breaking society’s designated decrees of accepted conduct. Negative consequences are the fate of those who break the laws, whether it be speeding, doing drugs, shoplifting, or murder. Therefore, I choose to be moral in order to avoid fines and/or incarceration.
However, if those consequences did not exist, would I speed, steal, or take drugs? Would I commit murder? According to God’s laws, I risk a hellish fate if I don’t abide by His commandments. So, even if I lived in a land where there were no legal standards of behavior, I choose to be moral in order to uphold the Christian ideals and mores that are spelled out in the Bible.
But suppose I grew up with no religious education and no concept of legal deportment. Would I still conduct myself in an ethical and noble manner? I think I would because of my conscience. Despite any lack of influence from laws and commandments, I possess inside of me an inner source of power that regulates my character and obliges me to choose the "right" way when confronted with a question of principle, fairness, or justice.
Why should I be moral? Because I want to conform to society’s laws. Because I strive to uphold the teachings of my Lord and to be pleasing in God’s eyes. And because I have to live with myself and constantly perform a self-administered evaluation. Did I do the "right" thing? I have to look in the mirror each day; therefore I choose to be moral so that I can peacefully sleep each night.
(I wrote this one when Shanda was in college. Her professor had asked the class to write a paper answering the above question. As I had done for the kids since they were in Jr. High, I did a bit of ghost writing.)
According to Webster, to be moral is to be ethical, virtuous, and righteous and to conform to a standard of behavior. Morality then is not some inherent trait that one is born with but rather a lifestyle choice. Assuming that I know the difference between right and wrong, why should I choose "right"?
One obvious reason is because of the legal implications of breaking society’s designated decrees of accepted conduct. Negative consequences are the fate of those who break the laws, whether it be speeding, doing drugs, shoplifting, or murder. Therefore, I choose to be moral in order to avoid fines and/or incarceration.
However, if those consequences did not exist, would I speed, steal, or take drugs? Would I commit murder? According to God’s laws, I risk a hellish fate if I don’t abide by His commandments. So, even if I lived in a land where there were no legal standards of behavior, I choose to be moral in order to uphold the Christian ideals and mores that are spelled out in the Bible.
But suppose I grew up with no religious education and no concept of legal deportment. Would I still conduct myself in an ethical and noble manner? I think I would because of my conscience. Despite any lack of influence from laws and commandments, I possess inside of me an inner source of power that regulates my character and obliges me to choose the "right" way when confronted with a question of principle, fairness, or justice.
Why should I be moral? Because I want to conform to society’s laws. Because I strive to uphold the teachings of my Lord and to be pleasing in God’s eyes. And because I have to live with myself and constantly perform a self-administered evaluation. Did I do the "right" thing? I have to look in the mirror each day; therefore I choose to be moral so that I can peacefully sleep each night.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Golfing in Grand Prarie
Golfing in Grand Prarie
(true story - one name has been changed to protect the innocent)
The wait on the first tee had already drug on for twenty minutes and now this! 110 yards down the left center of the fairway, just before the crossing cart path, an old man was lying on his side.
"What the heck is that?" Rick wanted to know.
Mark shrugged, "He was bending down to check his lie and he never came up".
Debbie and her brother, Randy were still sitting in the carts. Randy quickly appraised the situation and wondered aloud, "You think they will let us play through?"
"They should", replied Debbie, "because we should all be able to clear his body with our drives."
By this time Rick was trotting back to the pro shop to inform the staff about the new hazard in #1 fairway. An overweight gentleman promptly hopped in a cart and headed toward the prone linkster.
"I wonder if he knows CPR?" Mark asked.
Debbie, also concerned, offered "I wonder if he has a walky-talky to report back to the pro shop?"
Rick returned and chimed in, "I wonder if they will give him his money back?"
"I wonder if they will let us play through?" the impatient Randy still wanted to know.
The staff member, having joined the other members of the old man’s foursome, spent a few minutes over the motionless body and then began waving his arms in the direction of the pro shop.
So much for the walky-talky", Debbie said, "Is he signaling that the man is all right?"
Mark wasn’t sure either. "Maybe that means to call for help."
"He looks like those crazy ladies in the studio audience of the Rosie O’Donnell show", Rick said, adding "You know the way they wave their arms back and forth like a referee signaling ‘time out’."
Randy, thinking he had interpreted the gestures, blurted "I think he is telling us to go ahead and play through".
Presently the old man was put into a cart and driven back to the pro shop. The foursome on the tee box looked properly concerned. Debbie was right. Their collective golfing ineptitude dictated that they could have played through. The old man would have been safe. Randy put his tee shot into the right woods. Rick hit a tree and barely cleared the red tees. Debbie’s drive, as always, went 120 yards right down the middle. Mark, however, might have needed an official ruling as he uncorked a slicing worm-burner that could have become embedded in the old geezer’s butt.
As they made their way toward their respective balls, a yellow taxi turned into the entrance of the golf course.
Mark threw up his hands and told Rick "I can’t believe they called a cab instead of an ambulance!"
After walking a few paces Rick replied. "Maybe the local taxi service has a quicker response time."
Rick proceeded to put his second shot down the center of the fairway and into a crossing stream. Frustrated, he fumed, "They should give that old guy a one stroke penalty for slow play".
Mark stopped for a moment of reflection and dead-panned, "His penalty is that he just suffered one stroke".
(true story - one name has been changed to protect the innocent)
The wait on the first tee had already drug on for twenty minutes and now this! 110 yards down the left center of the fairway, just before the crossing cart path, an old man was lying on his side.
"What the heck is that?" Rick wanted to know.
Mark shrugged, "He was bending down to check his lie and he never came up".
Debbie and her brother, Randy were still sitting in the carts. Randy quickly appraised the situation and wondered aloud, "You think they will let us play through?"
"They should", replied Debbie, "because we should all be able to clear his body with our drives."
By this time Rick was trotting back to the pro shop to inform the staff about the new hazard in #1 fairway. An overweight gentleman promptly hopped in a cart and headed toward the prone linkster.
"I wonder if he knows CPR?" Mark asked.
Debbie, also concerned, offered "I wonder if he has a walky-talky to report back to the pro shop?"
Rick returned and chimed in, "I wonder if they will give him his money back?"
"I wonder if they will let us play through?" the impatient Randy still wanted to know.
The staff member, having joined the other members of the old man’s foursome, spent a few minutes over the motionless body and then began waving his arms in the direction of the pro shop.
So much for the walky-talky", Debbie said, "Is he signaling that the man is all right?"
Mark wasn’t sure either. "Maybe that means to call for help."
"He looks like those crazy ladies in the studio audience of the Rosie O’Donnell show", Rick said, adding "You know the way they wave their arms back and forth like a referee signaling ‘time out’."
Randy, thinking he had interpreted the gestures, blurted "I think he is telling us to go ahead and play through".
Presently the old man was put into a cart and driven back to the pro shop. The foursome on the tee box looked properly concerned. Debbie was right. Their collective golfing ineptitude dictated that they could have played through. The old man would have been safe. Randy put his tee shot into the right woods. Rick hit a tree and barely cleared the red tees. Debbie’s drive, as always, went 120 yards right down the middle. Mark, however, might have needed an official ruling as he uncorked a slicing worm-burner that could have become embedded in the old geezer’s butt.
As they made their way toward their respective balls, a yellow taxi turned into the entrance of the golf course.
Mark threw up his hands and told Rick "I can’t believe they called a cab instead of an ambulance!"
After walking a few paces Rick replied. "Maybe the local taxi service has a quicker response time."
Rick proceeded to put his second shot down the center of the fairway and into a crossing stream. Frustrated, he fumed, "They should give that old guy a one stroke penalty for slow play".
Mark stopped for a moment of reflection and dead-panned, "His penalty is that he just suffered one stroke".
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