The Art of the Bethpage Overnight (Part 1)

This little experiment is more about writing about interesting people than great golf travel or architecture, but I felt like “stretching my legs” a bit as a writer and branching out. I’ll be live from Jamaica for the next four days for the Pro Team Golf League Launch, but I’ll be doing this in between for a few days and giving out the years last Jazzy Awards before New Years Tour 2007 begins.

Oh, one last thing. The character of “Britt” is partly named as a nod to both 1) Lady Brett Ashley from Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises and 2) her look-alike, Aussie bombshell Britt Eckland from the James Bond classic The Man With The Golden Gun. (1974) Have fun.

THE ART OF THE BETHPAGE OVERNIGHT

It’s old school, to be sure. But then again, you know I’m all about old school. Living in the hip pocket of Bethpage is sweet seduction, a loooong, torrid welcoming kiss “hello.” Many twenty-minute pre-dawn drives have gotten me prime weekend tee times – sometimes even with a partner. Secure the spot off Number 1 on The Black at dawn, retreat to the breakfast room for the newspaper, cereal, toast, bacon and coffee, then hit balls before approaching the starter with the fine, wide, satisfied smile of a veteran who knows he’s up.

It’s easy for a local, but to the non-resident traveler, a day on the Black is the big game hunt, a fabled and adventurous golf safari; romantic images of the intrepid traveling golfer arriving at twilight the night before to get in line and sleeping unfitfully in the car, agog with anticipation of hunting the elusive birdie. The nervous energy, a mix of the adrenaline, anticipation and the warm glow of good friends is only tempered by the heaviness of a meaty grilled dinner and multiple drinks. How many times over the decades has this ritual been celebrated by beggar and king alike?

Many of my golf friends from around the country have promised to join me for this unique, holistic experience, but precious few have actually been able to partake. So one Monday, knowing the coming summer weekend would call all of New York City to its unctuous “dance of the sand crabs” in the Hamptons, I rattled off an email to eleven of my closest, most stalwart golf friends.

To: The Lion, The Elder Statesman, Rambo, Santiago, Snowcap, The Twig, Handle-Bar, Pocketwatch, My Mentor, His Son, and Steady, (hereafter collectively, “The Peanut Gallery”).

Gentlemen:

You have all played golf with me on many occasions, but never together as a group. Moreover, while you all revere Bethpage Black, more than half of you have never played the course. This untenable situation must be rectified immediately. The time for committed action has arrived. Such stout golf hearts as you all possess – hearts of oak – I insist we enjoy each other’s company on the Black this weekend.

I then added a personal appeal to each one depending on their relation to me – as a college friend, a legal colleague, my mentor, whatever – named that Saturday for the date certain, provided directions to the course, and concluded by instructing them to “bring food and libations you think everyone will enjoy. Significant others are welcome. We will convene in the far parking lot one-half hour before sunset.”

Eleven variations on the reply, “Thank you, I shall certainly come” arrived promptly.

TWILIGHT RENDEZVOUS

Santiago makes the perfect host and an invaluable assistant. In adventures like these, the kind that need top-flight organization, (like getting twelve weekend times on The Black), a bon vivant like Santiago is imperative. He lives a mere 3-wood from the fourth hole of the Green Course, owns an enormous grill and spacious Coleman cooler, and he drives a useful 4×4. More importantly, his oodles of Latin charm, penchant for the finer things in life, joviality, and deep golf knowledge make him immediately accessible to everyone.

Moreover, Handle-bar, Snowcap, Pocketwatch, The Twig, and My Mentor are all lawyers like him, so they will take easily to his charm, color and intelligence. His sports politics are sadly and predictably New York-centric. He roots for GYRKS (pronounced “Jerks”), Giants-Yankees-Rangers-Knicks-Syracuse. College buddies from our first day and frat brothers to boot Santiago and I fell into our old routine like Terry Bradshaw and Lynn Swann. It was a mix of witty banter and masculine insults, but it was all good natured, if incessant all weekend.

So the day arrived. He bought off his wife with $400, told her to organize the “Widow’s Shopping Junket” for the next day to entertain non-golfing wives, and picked up Britt and I in Forest Hills. Arriving half an hour early to stake out our space, Santiago wisely chose the back parking lot to maximize room and minimize intrusion. We had space to spread out and make all the noise we wished. Red streaks were painting the sky as the engine died with a faint grumble and cough. My dad taught me an adage as a child that had never failed in my experience, “Red sun in the morning, sailor take warning, red sun at night, sailor’s delight.” Tomorrow promised to be clear as a bell and blue as a sapphire. As fate would have it, we had chosen to overnight during a full moon, so there was plenty of light for any night putting, marshmallow toasting or walks with Britt.

Ah, Britt. Let out a breathless sigh with me for the brightest star in the female firmament. Britt is devastatingly beautiful; blond hair cascading down the sides of her face serenely and gorgeous legs moving elastically in a graceful ballet. Her bedroom eyes capture you with promises of wild, passionate romance and slow, satisfying kisses. Her smile dazzles the room like the brightest sunshine. Part tom-boy and part glamour girl, she can kickbox and run half marathons, and yet her kisses could calm Hurricane Katrina and she smells like strawberries when you are close to her.

Ha! Try resisting that! Just try!

But Britt is worth about three million dollars…of trouble, that is. For beneath the “come hither beauty” exterior that evokes nothing less than blind loyalty lurks a volcano of energy and a danger-seeking/troublemaking streak a mile wide. Many men have dashed themselves against the rocks for her, and I’m not just talking financially, although her monthly sushi and alcohol bills do tend to resemble small government defense budgets. Watching her turn men into mice with ruthless efficiency, one cannot help but be impressed. Nevertheless, even armed with that knowledge, she’s impossible to resist. You see it coming, you know it’s happening, every fiber in your being screams warnings, but she’s irresistible and then WHAM! – the trap closes shut. As the song said, “the binding melts enclosing me, a sample in a jar.”

Britt fits right in with us trading barbs while mixing the first of many margaritas with her “EZ-Chop” battery-operated blender (“a marvel of technology!” blithers the marketing literature. “Never be without a margarita again!”) To her dismay, she was outvoted on music and the Grateful Dead joyously sang “Sugar Magnolia” at top volume, while Santiago and I grooved like dorky white guys.

Santiago had outdone himself. The grill was equipped with not one but two chimney starters, the latest in advanced gadgets for slow-cooking meats with complex smoky flavors and falling-off-the-bone tenderness. What a fascinating modern age we live in.

“Dude” Santiago began, addressing both Britt and I with this rather pedestrian term as he poured “Quik-E-Burn” brand charcoal in the top of the chimney starter. “Petrochemicals don’t exactly impart a well balanced flavor and they’ll give you a roaching headache.”

“Roaching?” Britt asked, accentuating the word as if she was holding a dead fish between her thumb and index finger.

“Yes, roaching” Santiago replied, rolling his “r.”

“Roaching means…” I started.

“Yeah, I got it without the subtitles,” Britt finished. “Am I gonna need a glossary to hang out with you guys this weekend? I mean do you cause as much trouble as he does?” she asked Santiago while gesturing at me with her margarita.

“Oh he excels at trouble” I volunteered.

“Oh, if you do say so yourself!” Santiago blurted with feigned umbrage. “Hello kettle?” He asked to no one in particular, holding his thumb to his ear and his pinky to his mouth. “Pot here…you left the skillet at my house.”

“Ha!” laughed Britt, smiling widely and looking at me.

We poured the rest of that batch of margaritas into our cups (“never be without a margarita again!” quipped Britt), and stuffed one large rolled up sheet sheet of the New York Post into the bottom of the chimney starter. Cindy Adams’ face and gossip column charred and blackened as Santiago lit the paper just as The Twig and family arrived.

The Twig is terrific; a noble, kindly soul. Wafer thin, the Twig need only sneeze to fly backwards from his Manhattan office across the river into New Jersey. He’s never broken 100, but he’s also is one of the more pacific partners you could ever wish for. Chipper, intrepid and optimistic at all times, I’d rather play 1,000 rounds with The Twig (who shoots 121) than play one round with an expert who was a jerk. He has also been with me on several seminal moments in my golf travels, journeying to the hinterlands of North Dakota for our “Bison Tour 2006” of great heartland public courses and for the much more hilarious “steel death cage match” between “Captain Useless” and “Godzilla-rina” in NYC, but that’s a story for another day.

Twin pre-teen boys, an older sister, and a young, tall, thin woman poured blithely out of a suburban with him. Twig’s wife and daughter had a hotel for the night and would later drive off to await The Elder Statesman’s wife and My Mentor’s wife and daughter for “Widow’s Dinner,” but would stay for a while. Of course, upon hearing that the buy in for the shopping spree was $400, she prized two more Benjamins gleefully from her good-natured husband, who took it in stride. The twin boys expressed delight at sleeping in a tent with their dad. “You said we’re roughing it, so they wanted in. They love camping.”

Now Santiago may have been brought up in the lap of luxury, (he vacationed at St. Moritz, you know), but it shocks me how much geek resides in his 6’2″ 240 pound frame. When comic books, Star Trek or Star Wars get mentioned, he becomes King of the Nimrods, debating the most inane, mind-numbing gibberish with legal precision. I knew he was lost years ago when he looked up from some dog-eared, well-worn grotesque-looking piece of glorified fan fiction and said “Dude, Leia Organa Solo just had her baby.” I couldn’t find a rehab center to take him, but when he wants help, I’m here.

Anyway, upon learning that The Twig is chief counsel to a major comic book company, Santiago gleefully told him of his tradition to dress for golf in the colors of various superheroes. This always has the most unfortunate results. On the 4th of July, he horrified everyone by dressing up as “Captain America,” sporting a “star-spangled banner” golf shirt, red shorts, (RED SHORTS?!), red and white striped shoes and an oversized, star-embossed belt buckle. On another occasion he wore red, orange and yellow for “Iron-Man” and every time he hit a good shot he loudly sang “I…AM…IRON MAN! DA-da-DA-da-DA-da-DAH-IRON MAN!” and stomped around the fairway like a demented dinosaur. The Twig and he chuckled that tomorrow he was playing as “The Incredible Hulk” with a green shirt and purple pants. Ever the irreverent wag, I noted that “you’ll look more like ‘The Joker’ and you play like him too” and had to dodge a vicious kick aimed squarely at my groin.

I had to jump into the road to get out of the way and nearly got clipped by a car. I heard the passenger yell “watch out for that chump!” as it slowed to a stop to turn into a parking space. Then he shouted “Oh look, that chump is Jay! Why’d you miss?” and I recognized Handle-Bar, Pocketwatch and Snowcap arriving in Snowcap’s minivan, out of breath with laughter.

It was a happy reunion. Years had passed since we had last had dinner together in Manhattan and it seemed another life when I worked for them as a young lawyer. Brilliant lawyers they were; tough, talented seasoned litigators, persuasive at oral argument, highly organized and probing when examining witnesses and deeply respected by judges. I often said their firm would thrive in New York without missing a beat and believe in their dedication with adamantine certainty.

They also had golf in their DNA. Handle-Bar, possessed of a moustache which Teddy Roosevelt would envy, regularly scores in the mid-70s and has a reverence for old, classic golf courses. Flawless mechanics meld seamlessly razor-sharp clarity regarding shot selection. If it’s at all possible, Handle-Bar makes zero mental errors on the golf course – just like his law practice. Handle-bar is the kind of golfer who will go to the UK and play every day in pouring rain, sloshing up the fairway while every one else is in the clubhouse drinking Bushmills and lamenting “we don’t play in this crap in Florida.” He’ll quietly author a 75 all the while remembering the mantra “nae rain, nae wind, nae golf.”

Pocketwatch is also one of the finest litigators in the country. In all the years he has practiced – over twenty – he has only lost one trial and he had that adverse decision overturned on appeal. As a result, he has never lost a litigated case. I once knew a lawyer who said, “Show me a lawyer who never lost a case and I’ll show you a lawyer who never had a hard case.” Yeah? Well, he never met Pocketwatch, and Pocketwatch lived on hard cases. The most brutal, bilious bulldog of a litigator I have ever known gave Pocketwatch the highest compliment he could offer, “If I ever got in trouble, I’d want Pocketwatch to defend me.”

However if I ever needed someone to hit a golf shot to save my life, Pocketwatch would most certainly not be the choice. Known more for stubbed chips, three-jacks, and hooked drives, Pocketwatch taught me the term “mumble tank” as in “I was in the mumble tank all day after five-putting that par-three from two feet.” That being said, few people smile through their golf pain with greater bravery than Pocketwatch. He’s here at Bethpage ready to take his lumps and that courage is good enough for me.

Snowcap, the only one who moved to New York, is a specialist in sports law, but also sports a single digit handicap and is a veteran of many rounds on the great courses of the UK. Snowcap gave me great wisdom when I left the firm for NYC and encouraged me with his belief in my work ethic. We spent many hours in a golfdome hitting drivers and hybrids and planning out my future. Snowcap hadn’t changed a bit. His shortly-trimmed salt and pepper afro, a cherubic frame and deep rich, sincere laugh tumbled out of the driver’s seat and bear-hugged me. In fact, all thee embraces were warm and the smiles broad. We exchanged “Long time” and “lotta water under lots of bridges” and “look at you nows.”

Before the scene dissolved further, Britt broke it up with her mere presence. If the three new arrivals smiles were broad upon seeing me, you should have seen them when they looked at Britt! They all stood up a little straighter, un-slumped their shoulders and nervously ran their fingers through their hair. They probably would have paid $10 each for a can of breath spray and a comb. Just as I predicted, they went from erudite lawyer to nervous schoolboy at “hello.”

It happens all the time…

For her part, Britt is a rock star when she has an audience. Her bubbly, but bright personality dovetails perfectly with the lawyers for whom she works as a recruiter, so she was right in her element. They may throw fastballs, but she’s got the bat speed to turn on any pitch. Quickly they realized she was not just a pretty face, but the belle of the ball, fielding questions about law, life and love while slinging strong margaritas (I think this batch was mango.) She served them up frosty cold in transparent crystal blue plastic cups. Santiago meanwhile was firing up the second chimney starter and engaging The Twig and Pocketwatch.

“I marinate them in Spiedie sauce overnight” said Pocketwatch. “The come out tender and juicy” he remarked brightening as he placed a large Tupperware container with several strip steaks in a purplish, herb-studded viscous concoction.

“They do” echoed Santiago. “But we have a difficult time finding Spiedie Sauce down here. You guys are lucky where you’re from, you have Wegman’s too.”

“Oh, yeah.  Wegman’s is the best there is” Pocketwatch agreed.  “The whole city shops there.  They come from miles around.”

 

I left Santiago and Pocketwatch discussing the various dry rubs Santiago had produced for his batch of steaks because I saw The Lion, Steady, and The Elder Statesman arriving.  Flying into LaGuardia from different points around the country, they coordinated their arrival and rented ground transport together.  Now I saw the unmistakable forms of Steady at the wheel, wearing his trademark red-tinted sunglasses and the Lion riding shotgun.

 

They are a formidable group.  The Lion towers over most people.  His “burly-mon” frame and long mane of tawny hair give the impression of a lion as much as a man.  He has the personality to match.  The Lion is The Lion – he’s King of the Jungle.  He’s colorful and opinionated.  His golf is solid.  Hailing from Nebraska, one of the holy regions of all golfdom, he appreciates great golf with all his soul.

 

The Elder Statesman came next.  Refined, yet humble, world traveled, yet easy going, wise, yet friendly, The Elder Statesman chatted hugged me fervently, nearly squashing my spine in the process.  “Hi Elder.  Hi Mrs. Elder” I gasped, still trying to regain my wind.  He also immediately noticed Britt and introduced himself, giving me a chance to turn to Steady.

 

Before I cold greet him, chaos erupted at my feet.  Three tiny dogs – two Jack Russells and the largest Chihuahua you ever saw scampered about recklessly as soon as they exited the vehicle.  “Augie!  Yardley!” shouted Steady to the dogs, trying unsuccessfully to rein them in.  “Get back here!”  But it was too late.  Augie ran one way, Yardley the other, and Roscoe still a third.

 

Having three dogs is like having three kids.  When you have two kids, you can hold onto one and the wife secures the other.  When you have three, one is always loose.  One of my friends and his lovely wife found this out the hard way when they had their third daughter.  Things were tough enough keeping an eye on “Caroline” and “Sloane” but when “Cameron” started crawling things went from “dull roar” to “New Years Eve crazy.”  Mom put Sloane down to stop Caroline from drawing on the walls with her lipstick.  Dad then released Cameron because Sloane had run to the freezer, grabbed a large ham and was heading to the dryer to “cook breakfast daddy!”  She had the ham in the dryer and was hitting the right button to start the appliance when Dad deftly grabbed her in one arm, the ham in the other.  He looked at mom, who was still clutching Caroline and they breathed a sigh of relief.

 

And that’s when Sloane beamed, pointed and said “Look!  Sissy’s walking!”  Everyone turned just in time to see Cameron grab the tablecloth to pull herself up to her feet.  Oblivious to the rules of physics (when you pull the tablecloth, you pull what’s on it), and unable to see the huge mug of cold coffee, the two litre bottle of “Shasta” brand soda and daddy’s spittoon brimming with Copenhagen laced spit, Cameron was suddenly showered with foul smelling viscous gunk.  Pretty red hair drenched, pink dress soiled and ruddy cheeks dripping, she let out a mournful howl.  Of course, we ran immediately for the camera.

 

“Smile!”

 

“WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

So as a result, they had a fourth child, another girl.  “One of these days” I jibed to my friend “you’ll put the stem on the apple.”

 

Anyway, suddenly we were all occupied collecting Steady’s pets, but it made for easy introductions.  Yardley, the Chihuahua was gathered up in Handle-bar’s arms, while Pocketwatch snatched up Augie who licked his face appreciatively.  Santiago and Britt seemed to have Roscoe cornered, Santiago behind him, Britt in front, each about ten feet from the dog.  Suddenly Roscoe bolted right for Britt, then darted to the right.

 

To use a football phrase, Britt “bit on the fake” and lunged to head off the dog, which was exactly what Roscoe wanted.  He darted back to the left and scooted right between her legs.  She looked up, her face covered in bewilderment.

 

“You got nutmeged!”  I jibed, using the soccer term for when the ball goes through the wickets.

 

“Yep!  Five hole!  I saw the five hole!” shrieked Santiago, using the hokey slang for the same thing.  Britt straightened, blushed a bit and curled her lips into a tight line, giving us both a hawkish look that screamed “I’ll get you for this” without saying a word.

 

As luck would have it, Steady had also brought his twenty year old daughter with him and Roscoe ran gleefully into her arms.  With order finally restored, I hugged Steady and his daughter warmly.

 

“You always have to make an entrance, don’t you?” I joked smarmily.

 

“Yeah, well one of us has to have some style” he shot back, grinning broadly.

 

The three of them did…what else…talk earnestly with Britt who was genuinely interested in hearing about the myriad places the three had traveled to play golf.  Between them they bagged such far-flung, exotic locales as South Africa, New Zealand and Morocco.  All three have solid games and are joyful company.  These three were a power trio worthy of comparison to Rush.

 

            Hmmm…now who’s the nimrod?

 

Anyway, all three are remarkably well traveled golfers and took to the crew immediately, especially leggy Britt.  The whir of her blender played counterpoint to the sizzle of the steaks and burgers, the exchange of grilling instructions and marinate recipes, and the crack of the caps removed from a round of Bass Ales and Hefeweizens.