Angels descend on Wisconsin’s Northwoods
By Hainer, The
A whole lot of years ago I recall seeing a short cartoon on some wacky late night show where a small child was wandering lost in a dangerous urban setting. The child was sobbing while lecherous bums laughed and leered at the lad from either side of the street. The bums close in, pointing and poking at the boy when the kid’s guardian angel shows up and blocks their jabs using his golden halo - and all the while manages to talk some sense into the bums. Then, in an instant and out of nowhere, an evil Castro look-alike dude in army fatigues appears with a flame-thrower. He fries everyone to a crisp - the angel, the boy, the bums - and walks off with the golden halo which had fallen to the street like a giant coin.
For some reason, that animated short has, unfortunately, stuck with me for over two decades.
* * *
I’ve got a friend who has worked tirelessly on the board of directors for a cancer support foundation called Angel on My Shoulder. He is instrumental in organizing a golf fundraiser called The Angel Golf Spectacular at the St. Germain Golf Course in Wisconsin’s north woods. This year they raised over $100,000 during The 10th annual Spectacular that was held June 9th. The money goes to help folks dealing with cancer in their families. But for Bruce, this was his first Spectacular with the knowledge that he, too, at the age of 51, now had cancer.
Advanced metastatic prostate cancer. It had spread; lymph nodes and bones. Not good.
He found out in September of 2005. His first doctor said he had three months to a year to live. Bruce owns a beverage company known mostly for its Jolly Good Soda; they are the folks who “put the pop in Wisconsin.” He has always been the type of owner you’d find in the plant, in jeans and work boots and a hairnet. As one might expect from someone who would dare to sell soda in a Coke and Pepsi universe, he has refused to wilt in the face of the doctor’s death sentence. He trekked to a renowned cancer research center in Houston; rolled up his sleeves, did a lot of research, and along with some brilliant but far from liable doctors, decided on an aggressive but risky experimental treatment that ravages ones blood. Thus far, it has stabilized the cancer; at least to the point where he feels he has added a few more years to the forecast of his first doctor.
Bruce had asked me to play with him in The Spectacular in the past, but the event has always conflicted with US Amateur Public Links qualifying - an event I haven’t missed in 12 years. And so I had never played in The Spectacular. When he said, “I’d like to win it this year, or not play at all,” I felt differently about his invite.
“Sure,” I said. Bruce also asked if I could find another player to bring 4 ½ hours north who might give us a chance to win a charity event that really isn’t, or shouldn’t be, all that much about winning. But winning The Spectacular, just once, was what Bruce wanted to do. And there was a point that he wanted to make in doing so.
I sent out an S.O.S. and found a buddy, “Nick,” who, along with “Freddy” a mutual friend of Bruce’s and mine (and happens to be a cancer survivor ten years running) we had our team…and a mission. The mission was to win, for Bruce. And to win…we’d have to beat Reba.
Reba Maybe is her name. Every year she gathers up a team of assassins (including a reinstated mini-tour player) and takes all the prizes at The Spectacular. Reba is a former stand-out golfer for the Wisconsin Badgers. She is from Minoqua, near St. Germain, and so we’d be taking on Reba and her band of marauders on their home turf. It wouldn’t be easy - we were no doubt “weaker on paper.” But, as they say, “they don’t play games on paper.”
When Nick and I rode up together, I told him what I knew. Nick is a tall, unmarried Italian pushing 50 with a lady-killer’s wandering eye; he was quite intrigued by the legend of Reba. The morning of the event, he patrolled the putting green, the range and the abutting parking lot hoping to get a glimpse of the great woman. “Where’s Reba?” was a question heard frequently wafting from the various pockets of the nearly 200 golfers milling about. Then, as the sun found a gap between the gigantic spires of pines standing sentry to the course's entry, a glistening white Jeep Cherokee detailed with pinstripes and the NY Yankees logo on each door entered the parking lot like a ghostly chariot. Heads turned, volunteers, staff and golfers stopped talking and contagious smiles ran the gamut. The magnitude of the event went up a couple notches.
Reba Maybe was in da house.
Nick caught a side view of her through the driver’s side window of her Yank-mobile. He said, “The gal looks like she might be kinda cute.” Nick was a sucker for a pony tail through a ball cap. But then, seriously, who isn’t?
“Don’t be fooled,” I said to keep him focused. “She’s a killer.”
Bruce had hoped if we could somehow pull off a victory, we would all then offer our prizes back to the Angel foundation. We would demonstrate the spirit of the event through our example and help raise even more money for The Angel on My Shoulder Foundation. We all agreed it was a no brainer.
But we had some hurdles. Bruce was, at best, a 25 handicapper. Freddy was an 8 or 9 and Nick was perhaps a 5 or 6. But all three were gamers. This was a mission where you could, as they say, “throw the numbers out the window.” Me, I’m around a one - but that’s because I generally play like a plus three and a minus nine within any given round. Flashes of brilliance sandwiched between the moldy bread of inconsistency. Was I better than Reba? Maybe…but she knew this golf course as well as she knew the impact of her own Rock Star status in The Northwoods. She knew golf pressure, she knew Big Ten pressure, and more importantly, she knew Angel pressure.
We were “city folk” in the eyes of the Northerners and friendly vacation-land locals who had gathered for this most noble cause. The woods and the darkness that lined every fairway were deemed by us “slickers” as “The Lyme Disease.” It was a scramble format; we were swinging from the heels; that’s what you do in scrambles, and so we left some eggs in the deepest recesses of The Lyme Disease. We felt those balls would be a just reward for those with balls enough to take on the jungle on future recon missions. We had a purpose, and the purpose wasn’t no stinking Easter egg hunt in a forest full of ticks.
As one might expect, we got off slowly. The cool wind was up; our putting was off, our nerves jangled as our spirit was challenged. We accumulated a few pars, and in scrambles, pars are known as bogies. In The Spectacular you play in eight-somes, the group we were paired with, The Eliasons, was one of the favorites besides Reba’s group. The Eliason family owns Timber Ridge, one of the best courses in The Northwoods. One of the sons played for Wisconsin in college, his brother was okay, but their seventy-something dad was a beauty. He could hit the ball maybe 140 yards tops…but on the greens he was a putting savant who put on a show worth charging admission. They also had a low-key mystery man in wrap-around shades who rarely spoke. The guy made a secret service agent seem like a male cheerleader. The Eliason team was killing us after nine holes.
But we kept at it. We had all come a long way. I’ve known each fella for over a half century cumulatively, and I knew they would not lay down, that they knew no other way. We birdied eight of the last nine holes. The highlight, easily, was the hole where Bruce made a final putt using a mulligan he had paid for earlier. It was almost a holy moment when he announced his intention and buried the putt as if God had whispered in his ear that there was nothing to fear. The one birdie we didn’t get was after Nick had hit a wedge to eight feet on 17. It was deflating. Still, our back nine effort was enough to pass the Eliason’s who may have been victimized by “Angel Pressure.” When the last birdie putt went in on our 18th hole, we assumed we came up a bit short since Reba’s group had shouted their position to the Eliasons a few holes earlier. (We were basically Bruce and the unknown out-of-towners.) But Reba’s group, in good fun I suppose, had lied.
The truth was, we tied for the title and won in a playoff. No reason to belabor the details. We won. Despite our coughing start, we kept smashing our balls toward the hole and with a lot of laughs along the way, we got it done.
It was over.
At the banquet that night we offered our prizes (pro shop credit) back to the Angel Foundation. They were impressed by the offer, and announced it to the crowd. Apparently, that’s the only point they wanted to make. They said the charity auction was already set, that with all the extravagant items they had to auction off, our $400 in pro shop credit would take up time required for items that would, we found out, net thousands of dollars each. So we kept our prizes. Bruce had made his point, subtly, and with class, but to make it he needed first to win. For Freddy, Nick and me, the canyon-wide smile of a champion on Bruce’s face that evening was the real prize.
But it wasn’t over.
Austin DeGroot is a radiant nine year old boy. He has Leukemia. Banquet master of ceremonies Stephanie Klett, a former Miss Wisconsin turned television host introduced Austin to the crowd. The boy joked about hanging out with, and reportedly out-eating special Angel celebrity Gilbert Brown at breakfast earlier that day. Around his neck was a beaded necklace. Prompted by Stephanie, he explained how each bead represented a medical procedure, bone marrow transplant, spinal tap, sedation etc…
As he listed off what the beads represented, the crowd winced and nearly wept. There was the collective silence of shared aching when the young boy finished. Stephanie took the mike back. “You should know that Austin has three of these necklaces.” Everyone in the banquet hall sagged a bit and no doubt found themselves prayerfully grateful for the health of their loved ones - or thought of those in their own lives who have fought, or fight daily, the perils of cancer. So painful is such clarity when it is visited upon one so young and brought before you.
We were snapped back to reality when the lights went down and Ms. Klett announced that Austin would like to sing a song for us. “Sweet,” I thought, expecting maybe “Michael row Your Boat Ashore” or something else a nine year old might sing in grade school. Well, the music kicked in and Austin sang a song by Alabama called “Angels Among Us.”
We were not prepared for the fact that Austin DeGroot was exceedingly talented. The power and emotion in which he belted out this song, with the timely message, simply blew the roof off the room and opened up a few hundred hearts until there were tears at every table. When he finished, the crowd erupted into a standing ovation and the young boy’s humble smile and twinkling eyes took our experience to the outer reaches of wherever moving hearts end up.
Angels Among Us
By Becky Hobbs
I was walking home
from school on a cold winter day
Took a shortcut through the woods, and I lost my way
It was getting late, and I was scared and alone
But then a kind old man took my hand and led me home
Mama couldn't see him, oh but he was standing there
And I knew in my heart, he was the answer to my prayers
Chorus:
Oh I believe there are angels among us
Sent down to us from somewhere up above
They come to you and me in our darkest hours
To show us how to live, to teach us how to give
To guide us with the light of love
When life held troubled times, and had me down on my knees
There's always been someone to come along and comfort me
A kind word from a stranger, to lend a helping hand
A phone call from a friend, just to say I understand
And ain't it kind of funny at the dark end of the road
That someone lights the way with just a single ray of hope
No doubt Austin’s performance helped to unlock the resources of the already generous people at The Angel Golf Spectacular. He came by each table and gave us a three song CD which included “Angels Among Us.” The brother team of auctioneers had their job made easy and it showed in their white-boy rural rap; the charity came from every corner of the hall as the good will flowed. And then, in its tenth year, the most successful Spectacular was finally over.
On the long ride home the next morning, Nick and I listened to Austin’s CD and a few of mine. We talked about the whole experience, joking when necessary as cover for our greatest fears. Cancer is a killer. Everyone has friends and family fighting it or who have perished from it. We had come to The Northwoods under the auspices of doing something nice for Bruce; that we’d be great guys for being willing to drive the 350 miles for this good and giving man. Typical, I suppose, for those us so blessed to find virtue in such a minimal effort. I mean, how much one must really give to go play golf with good folks for a great cause in a beautiful setting.
The irony, of course, is that it was not us doing the favor. We got far more from the Spectacular than we could ever give. And while I can’t seem to get that nasty cartoon (animated short) out of my head - a two minute story where evil coldly claims innocence and goodness and life – I do believe that the real life counterparts of the boy and the angel, Austin and Bruce, represent a an ongoing triumph over those uneasy images. And they will, through their faith and how they share it, fare far better in every way, everyday, and eternally.
For more information on the Angel on My Shoulder foundation: www.angelonmyshoulder.org