Reflections on a Roadtrip
Cast: (In order of appearance):
Dr. Jeffrey Ausen—Waukesha Dentist
Bob Gregorski—Real Estate Developer
Tom Halla—Clubhouse Mgr., Nagawaukee G.C.
Bill Linneman—Director of Rules and competition, WSGA
Tommy Welton—Outside Services Mgr., The Bog
Tom Macaravich—Electrical Contractor
Christo Van Pietersom—Assistant Pro, The Bog
John Haines—Packaging Maven, Sheboygan Paper Box Co.
Date: March 23rd-26th, 2005
Destination: Four good golf courses and a well-managed Super 8 near Saint Louis.
Forecast: Four days of possible rain, highs near fifty, lows in the thirties, wind blowing from a direction.
The “golf-guy get-away” is one of life’s great rewards for hotshots and chops alike. All you really need is a little cash or a credit card, one Y chromosome, and not be, as of yet, dead. The same qualities, come to think of it, for which my wife may have married me. Seriously, to break away without burning up too many vacation days at work or any residual goodwill at home isn’t always the easiest thing to pull off. But once again, we did it, and damn if it wasn’t a wonderful thing to look forward to after the cold, hard hammer of winter had some of us all bent out of shape.
We again went in fine style. It was the week leading up to Easter, Wednesday through Saturday, and we had reservations at one of your better-managed Super 8s just outside of Saint Louis in one of those suburbs where you were close to everything and nothing. Thirty minutes to some terrific golf courses with famous designers, and 30 seconds to the chain restaurant of your choice. And so we felt like lotto-winners.
We were eight golf-deprived guys in three cars driving six hours one way on a southbound interstate through the frosted brown and khaki landscape of western Illinois. The toll ways of Rockford came quickly, then a stop for fluids, in-take and out-flow, in Bloomington-Normal, and on to Alton and beyond. We watched the temperature on the dashboard go up one degree every 50 miles. 41 degrees was looking like a real possibility, and for that we were grateful to whichever God each of us counted on for providing us with what we needed, if not everything we wanted.
On the way down, I rode with Dr. Jeffrey Ausen in his luxury SUV. It had that GPS navigation deal with a little map screen that shows where you are and where you’re going while an omniscient, erudite woman (Driller calls her Condi) gently announced not only when and which way to turn, but also when to resist such a temptation and simply “continue on...” She could not, however, keep Zdriller from playing his Dixieland CD (the house-music in hell, no doubt); nor did she intervene when Z felt compelled to break down the lyrics from Tom T. Hall’s “Old dogs, Children and Watermelon Wine.” Who would have thought that “Half-Empty Jeffrey” was such a softie?
On the way back, I rode with Bob Gregorski, Bill Linneman and Tom Halla. Bob doesn’t drink and drive anymore, but he does do pretty much everything else. At any one time Bob may be on the phone (while driving, mind you) working out odd franchise development deals. Strip mall combos like Starbucks/Famous Footwear/24 hour Taxidermy/Associated Bank/Drive-thru Vasectomy, you name it…all while perusing a golf magazine and cursing another car that was cursing him, or perhaps checking some data on his Palm Pilot or Blackberry or whatever it is while munching French fries and washing them down with one of those Starbucks beverages that ends in a vowel. The man’s a multi-tasker.
The first round of golf, as has become tradition, was at the Jack Nicklaus-designed Stonewolf Golf Course. However, this time they had not told us when we made our tee-times that they’d be aerating the greens the day before we got there. We’d sooner eat light-bulbs and throw back Draino chasers before playing on freshly aerated greens—but we stepped out of our vehicles and plowed through our 18 holes, during which the temperature plummeted from a halcyon high of our coveted 41 to the mid-thirties, but with enough wind for us to experience the roaring twenties according to some “feels like” meteorological jive. It was lovely--and the wet aerated greens had ruts you could lose a wedge in.
Even more than finishing with back-to-back birdies, the highlight for me came at the beginning. I watched a cranky Tom Halla hitch up his trousers and light up the professional staff for not giving us the “new carts” with “cart covers.” Tom told them, “We come here every freakin’ year, drive six freakin’ hours, play in the worst freakin’ weather and we can’t have no freakin’ bubble on our carts?” The head pro immediately apologized and set us up properly. (For the record, Tom really did use the word “freakin’”). After all, we were their only freakin’ customers.
That night at Houlihans, the eight of us ate approximately 14 appetizers before we even considered dinner. The clear winner, appetizer division, was some kind of sweet and hot chicken called Spicy Thai wings. We should have known they’d be the winner because when cranky Tom Halla ordered them, he said, “I want an order of Spicy Thai Wings and I don’t want to share them with anyone.” Cranky Tom knows his food. After dinner, Bill Linneman did the math for the check because 20 years ago he had majored in finance, and his name is, well, Bill. He made a motion that we give the waitress (who played up the small-town girl working her way through college to the hilt) the largest tip by double that she will ever receive. We said “okay” (sigh) and she said “thank you” (smile). Her smile meant everything to Billy.
The next day we audibled out of our intended 36 holes at Stonewolf, and went to the excellent, Bill Hurzden-designed, Annbriar Golf Course 35 minutes south of our well-managed Super 8. Condi talked us through some forks in the road, and at one point we thought we heard the distant strains of banjos and pig squeals. But the course was in great shape and the staff was competent, if a bit wooden. The genial owner of Annbriar looked like a shopworn, snaggle-toothed Mr. Clean--and he made sure we were taken care of.
It was supposed to rain, and it did so lightly, but only for a few minutes, and my hair held up fine. The greens were excellent without doing light bulb apples or Draino shooters. After 36 holes, even in carts (though cart path only), everyone was tired and hungry.
The talk turned to Spicy Thai Wings and just what they had come to mean to each of us. Tommy Welton, however, was concerned about finding a place to watch the UWM/Illinois NCAA tournament game. I casually mentioned that perhaps the Fridays by our hotel might be a consideration. We returned to the professionally managed Super 8 and when doing so it seemed clear the Fridays was packed--and so we decided on going to Houlies again where the wings awaited.
Problem was…Tommy Welton and Tom Mackaravich (Mac Daddy) had already decided that Fridays was the choice because I had mentioned it as a possibility. Tommy was in the military for 30 years and apparently the overflowing crowd at Fridays didn’t scare him. Must have said, “We’re going in.” Mac, as always, was right on his ass. We found this out from Christo Van Pietersom, the Amazing Christo, who had traveled in Mac Daddy’s car to and from Annbriar, and reported Tommy and Mac’s decision when he joined us at Houlies--where we had scored a table not far from their four TVs. We could easily keep track of the UWM game and enjoy our Spicy Thai Wings at the same time.
We had a great time telling stories from our day at Annbriar, as well as other tournament war stories from years gone by. Everyone had wings except Christo, again, finding still another way to prove why he’s so amazing. We had a different waitress who was just as sweet as the one from the night before, and even cuter. The bill came, and again, Billy figured what each of us owed. This time he suggested we set up a trust fund for our server. We resisted, but Billy got to see another young lady smile.
The forecast for the next day again was for rain and chilliness. We were scheduled to play the Tom Fazio-designed Missouri Bluffs. It didn’t rain, though the course was soaking wet from the rain that preceded our visit. But it is a spectacular piece of land and we always look forward to Tom’s layout. We played 18 and then found everything backed up (it was Good Friday) for our next 18. We were concerned about getting back in time to watch the Wisconsin game as they were playing NC State in the big dance that night, and when the first nine of our second 18 took too long, well, who ya’ gonna call? Cranky Tom...that’s who. Tom Halla hitched up his trousers, went into the pro shop and arranged for us to have our credit cards credited.
We had a few drinks and told more stories at Mo Bluffs. Mac Daddy kept saying he was very sad that there had to be days in his life when he couldn’t buy each and every one of us a drink…because that would be his wish. He got emotional. Such is Mac Daddy.
I rode back to the dutifully managed Super 8 with Zdriller. On the way, we lost Bob, Tom and Billy because Bob wanted to take pictures of some strip malls. Z and I had to stop to pee at some highway get-off that was, truly, a get-off, I guess. It might not have been the best idea. We stopped at a gas station next to Larry Flynt’s Gentleman’s club, and the station was packed with a bunch of people talking loudly and non-stop. Upon entering, we quickly became the only white people in golf clothes in this station. Inside, there were two doors only, each with a sign on them. One said, “Not a restroom,” and the other said “Don’t even think of entering.” Z had to pee, as Billy Linneman says in every analogy he makes, “like a Banshee.” Z turned whiter.
So we left the small brick building and Z immediately entered the parking lot dumpster pen set off by a wood-plank fence behind the station. He peed on one side of the dumpster, and me the other. It took a while. We heard folks come and go at the station, and a lot of laughter. We couldn’t make out what anyone was saying, or what they were laughing about, and it made it hard for Z to pee because he was laughing and had to pee “like a banshee” in staccato.
When we got back to the Super 8, it was still being managed well, and we formulated a plan for the Wisconsin Game. Tommy, Mac Daddy and the Amazing Christo assumed we would be heading back to Houlies, which was 44 steps from the front steps of the efficient 8. They had the jump on us since they didn’t stop to pee at no freaking dumpster. Those three, we found out later, had secured some tables near the four TV’s and guarded them for hours waiting for Billy, Bob, Z, Cranky Tom and me to show up. We never did. We called Tommy’s cell 3 times and never got an answer.
Since it was Good Friday, as a Catholic, I had insisted on finding a place that would have cheese pizza. Cranky Tom found a sports bar, part of a chain called Southpaws. It was only was 2.7 miles down the road. I asked Tom if they had pizza. He said it’s a sports bar. I asked if they had pizza. He asked if I was an Earthling.
We entered Southpaws and were rendered speechless. The place had over 60 televisions, including an eight-foot Jumbotron. We were immediately seated at a private table for eight with a four-foot brick wall surrounding us. On the wall, seven feet in front of us, was a 46-inch plasma screen with the Wisconsin/NC State game on. We were overcome with emotion, and wished to hell Tommy, Mac and the Amazing Christo were with us. Turns out they were barking at people who were trying to take the tables they had saved waiting for us five to show up at Houlies. A shame.
Our waitress had a tattoo rising from her jeans, a pretty face, and was as crabby as a pretty girl with a bad tattoo who wished she didn’t have to wait tables on a Friday night. We were witty and charming but she didn’t warm to any of us. I again wished Christo was with us so she could see him be amazing. Billy handled the bill and our waitress was not impressed with 15%.
Saturday, our last day in paradise, was supposed to rain and it didn’t. We played the Arnold Palmer-designed Spencer T. Olin Golf Course in Alton, IL. This was the course we first starting coming to play seven years ago when the US Amateur Public Links was held there in 1999. We had figured one of us would qualify, and so we came and it proved to be true.
We did our round, nostalgic for a few of us, and headed for home. 99 Holes with seven great guys (one amazing) in 40-something weather. We worked on our games, ate some wings, argued about how to say Zoysia, (a southern fairway grass) and laughed enough to know what the best part of golf is all about.
And, it was the first time we had ever done this trip without a visit to a Steak and Shake. At one time such a thought seemed laughable. Now, I saw it as some men telling Eve to keep her apple.
On the trip back, Bob was driving and watching The Players Championship on Billy’s little Casio TV and re-gripping his driver—and while doing so he mentioned that some other guys we knew had headed off to do the same thing we were doing…only in Palm Springs.
We all shrugged. Heard it’s nice there too.