So I was stretching my legs writing for fun and I liked how this was coming out, so I thought I'd share it with you. If any of you have interesting stories of the "line up the night before and get bracelets and bakery tix" days, by all means chime in. It's fiction, but hopefully next year we'll make it reality.
By the way, there are three GCAers...see if you can spot 'em...CAVEAT...if you think you see yourself and you and I didnt talk about this beforehand, no its not you.
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 kiss “hello.” Many quick 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 it’s off to hit balls before approaching the starter with the fine, wide, satisfied smile of a veteran who knows he’s on deck.
It’s easy for a local, but to the non-resident traveler, a day on the Black is the big game hunt, a unique, 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 in anticipation of the challenge 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 one-of-a-kind, 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, Wes, Vincenzo, 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.
Vincenzo makes the perfect host and will prove an invaluable co-host. He lives a mere 3-wood from the fourth hole of the Green Course, owns an enormous Weber grill and spacious Coleman cooler, and he drives a useful 4x4. More importantly, his oodles of Latin charm, penchant for the finer things in life, 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 and color. His sports politics are predictably New York-centric. He roots for RYGK (pronounced “RI-jik”), Rangers-Yankees-Giants-Knicks. In adventures like these, the kind that need top-flight organization, (like getting twelve weekend times on The Black), a bon vivant like Vincenzo is imperative. College buddies from our first day and frat brothers to boot (DKE), Vicenzo 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, and picked up Babs and I in Forest Hills. Arriving half an hour early to stake out our space, Vincenzo preferred 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. 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.