October 6, 2007

ALPINE LAKE, WV — An editorial commentary by GStan – Continued

Leading Up to Saturday

The first conversation I have with Sheiker upon arrival at GXI is him telling me that Slick had called to inform him that his wife and kids were all sick, and the earliest he could make it to Alpine Lake would be Thursday night (who’s the sorority chick now?) (Actually it’s still me, because…)  I think deep down inside, I was happy that I was not going to have to face the Juice on Thursday.  I’ve been plowed quite a few times in my life, many of them at Golfapalooza, so I don’t know why I was such a puss about the Juice, but I was one none-the-less; a big one.  

Fast-forward through Thursday and most of Friday golf.  I hacked my way through some pretty lousy rounds on Thursday and Friday.  Thanks to the good company of Sleepy, Monte and Jaeger on Thursday and my fellow Founding Fathers on Friday, the rounds were not total losses.  And one thing happened on Friday that sealed my Saturday destiny.

If you tee off in an early group, which I had done on Friday, the 14th tee box at Alpine Lake is a great place to be.  Unless there are some real slowpokes out, you can see and hear the entire field of Loozers out on the course.  You can see the group ahead on 14 green or 15 tee, you can see and hear missed putt after missed putt on 13 green.  You can see balls bounce down the road or fall helplessly into the ravine as a result of errant shots on 12.  You can see groups across the lake playing 10 and you can see, if your eyes are good, every ball that splashes into the lake from Loozers on number 11.  You can hear every cheer and, thankfully, every “f&ck-son-of-a-b%tching-c&ck-s%cking-wh$re!”  

We arrive at 14 tee at about the same time Slick’s group, with Dosky, Winthorp and someone else, arrives at 11 green.  As we are hitting our tee shots to the green, the thunderous roar that shakes us from across the lake on 11 green is quite distracting.  We can’t discern every detail from our distant vantage point, but we would later find out that there was money placed in the hole, betting, sinking of more than one long putt, high-fiving, screaming, jumping, fist-pumping and hugging of firefighters.  And we had the privilege of hearing and witnessing all of this play out, TWICE, within 90 seconds.

I’m pissed.  Not only am I playing golf worse than your mom, but someone else is reaping the benefits of what was supposed to be MY Jungle Juice.  I’m the one that should be high-fiving and hugging firefighters!  Well, at least high-fiving, anyway.  So as we finish 14 and head to 15 tee, Slick’s group is approaching the adjacent 12th green.  He brings us a consolation prize of one bottle of Jungle Juice, claiming that his group is far too drunk to consume anymore, but he doesn’t want to break his 12/12 rule of Jungle Juice consumption, so he asks for our help.  He also says that he has nine more bottles of the stuff back at the hotel and that we should play together on Saturday.  Redemption!  I agree and Patch and I chug the last 20oz. of Juice in about 10 seconds.

Like most Loozers, as the evening progressed on, I didn’t give much consideration to what my plans for the next day were, nor did I let those plans dictate any sense of logic to my actions of the night.  Drinking and cornhole go together like peas and carrots, or me and your mom, so as Friday night’s cornhole tourney moved into the single-elimination round, I put away a lot of beer.  I think at least 3 against Winthorp, 3 or 4 more against Randy Watson, and 5 or 6 more during the 3 game semi-finals against JT.  It may not sound like a lot, but it was a lot for a sorority chick like me who had plans to drink tequila all day on Saturday.

Needless to say, when Saturday morning rolls around, I am feeling not at all like drinking anything with alcohol in it, let alone tequila.  I’ve consumed nothing but meat, pop-tarts and alcoholic beverages for three days.  I’ve slept a total of 12 hours in 3 days.  I was hammered Friday night.  I am standing on the first tee box on the very site where Carder, less than 24 hours prior, downed enough Knob in 3 minutes to kill anyone but Carder; and just the thought of him standing right there doing it was making me queasy. (See article ‘Three Minutes in History’)

Slick says, “We have about an hour, since we tee off last, do you want to go in and get breakfast?”  My gut reaction is an unequivocal NO, but then I started thinking about the amount of tequila that could be absorbed by biscuits, toast and English muffins.  So I walk in and join Slick and Monte who are seated at a table.  The staff is busily walking back and forth, ignoring our table.  And they don’t really seem to be accomplishing any tasks relative to working in a restaurant.  I get the feeling they are just walking.  They might even be having a race around the inside of the hotel, but unfortunately, we can only see a small portion of the race course from our table.  That makes it difficult to tell who is winning and kills any possible enjoyment I could have gotten out of it.

Having never eaten a meal in the hotel in nine years, I ask what’s good.  Slick says that their breakfast sandwiches are awesome and agrees with my theory that one or more would make a nice foundation upon which to dump some tequila sunrises.  Monte concurs and admits that he has already ordered two sandwiches ten minutes before Slick or I sat down.  Minardi joins us and asks if we’ve ordered.  He’s in a bad mood after his disappointing cornhole tournament showing, and he doesn’t even wait for our answer, he rudely goes and disrupts the staff’s race.  The caution flag comes out and the staff tells Minardi that the kitchen closed at 10 (15 minutes ago) and that we cannot place another order.  I just can’t believe how badly those racers must have wanted to win that not even one of them would stop to tell us that we were sitting and waiting for nothing, because the kitchen was closed.  Damn hilljacks.  Anyway Monte got his sandwiches and the rest of us left hungry.

One of the sandwiches Monte got was for Winthorp.  I walked past Winthorp’s cart, and he was about halfway done with his sandwich.  Innocently, and purely in jest, I say to him “wow, that looks good, are you going to finish that?” being sure to let a little drool slip out of the side of my mouth when I say it.  Winthorp does not hesitate for even a fraction of a second before offering the second half of the sandwich to me saying “take it; I wasn’t going to finish it anyway.”  I say, “Winthorp, I was just kidding.”  Given the speed and timidity of his response, I’m pondering several thoughts at the same time: 1) Does Winthorp think I know karate or something, and that I will thump him for half a breakfast sandwich?  2) Is Winthorp just being nice because I looked so perfectly pathetic when I asked about it?  3) Was Winthorp REALLY not going to finish it?  4) Does my status of Founding Father really carry that much weight with a second year man like Winthorp that I can just ‘fake ask’ for his food and he’ll give it up, no questions asked, is he after the MVL?  5) Is Winthorp really a pathetic loser desperate for attention?  Look at the facts.  He was hugging Slick yesterday; he’s giving me food today; his wife makes a sh1tload of dough, and yet he still goes off to work everyday and risk his life as a firefighter, just to have people to hang out with during the day, and the capper, he lives in the most populated city in the U.S. with, by far, more cool stuff to do per square mile than maybe any other city in the world and he is standing here on top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere with JT, Monte and 23 guys he doesn’t know.  That’s gotta tell you something.  

Winthorp, if you are reading this and you feel that not finishing the second half of your sandwich was my fault and in any way contributed to your poor golf course performance on Saturday, I apologize.  But only a little.  I mean, come on; you’re from New York; you got dat accent; grow a spine ya pathetic looza!  In any case, thanks again.  The sandwich hit the spot, and it’s about time to tee off.

To be continued...