For the record, Shivas and I fought bravely, but were vanquished by that guy from Texas and some reasonably well-known Bruin alumni, his fame at this point being notable for siring his congenitally grumpy offspring.
But, we got beat - I recall a handshake on the 15th green - after which Shivas and I pressed for an extra round of beers; Lou stuck it in our asses with birdie on #18, but being a classy guy, did not openly taunt us in the bar like his partner. One can only imagine what the Wizard of Westwood would have thought of his shameless gloating.
It reminds me of a match, fought to a draw, at the first Barona KP. This was where I'd finally met Tommy (before I coined his ubiquitous nickname) a year of so earlier. Emperor insisted - we were only GCA friends on the internet and phone - that I desperately needed to see this fabulous creation in a place called "Rattlesnake Canyon" - somewhere in the rocky bowels of the San Diego outback.
Yes, it was everything and more - and led to a long friendship with Eck, who I feel is an elite architect - in talent and ouvre if not a household name. I loved it so much, I convinced the Chair of an enormous industry tournament to abandon Singing Hills and move it to Barona - to rave reviews. I won't try to spell the new Indian casino name Singing Hills eventually became.
In any event, some twat, knowing that Tommy and I are the closest of friends, decided to pit us against each other in match play; let's face it, at the time I was not Jeff Fortson, but not afraid of many mortals either.
Okay, Tommy was a pretty damn good player, but our normal matches were me giving him 2.5 a side . . . . expecting a friendly match, I downed a couple extra road sodas and wandered casually up to the tee, only to find Naccarato looking at me like a hungry wolf.
As I recall, I was even par standing on the 6th tee and three down, since Tommy had started out birdie, birdie, par, par, birdie (holing out from a bunker).
Team Captain had already mentally figured I would win - but since Tommy's 40 footer on #18 hung on the lip of the cup, the North had to settle for a tie. Note to self: Don't ever underestimate Italians.
The strangest thing is Tommy has never mentioned the match again - even after all these years.
And although I remember absolutely killing somebody the next day in my match, damn if I can remember which team won - in fact, I cannot tell you for sure who won ANY of the K.P. matches . . . . probably the best evidence of why we all love it so much.
The last one I played was in May of 2013 . . . . we dragged everybody down to the Central Coast, first to play this really cool homemade job Neal and I had run across called The Links at Paso Robles - and then to San Luis Obispo CC to show off our handiwork. I got to play with Dan King at Dairy Creek, which is always a highlight.
I've not been back for much of anything as my life took a hairpin twist into a ditch. Standing on the 1st tee at Paso, my little brother called to tell me my father - the person who put a club in my hand at age 3 - had passed away in the night.
I put on a pretty brave face, all things considered, but like your parents, never forget to tell people you care about how much you love them. Life is short - those pictures from the past are at once life-affirming, but also a reminder most of us are walking down the 14th fairway at best.
If America gets out of this jam, let's all make an effort to celebrate those of us who are still on the north side of the divot - and remember those dear to us that are gone.