The Boo Chronicles, Vol. 2
LOUISVILLE--Well, I don't wanna say I was nervous on the first tee this afternoon, but I was dang near as tight as a mosquito's cheeks on a dive bomb. I guess Mr. Tiger decided not to come and speechify to us like a lot of people thought he might, but I know we can get in touch with him anytime we need him, 'cause he sent a text with Mark Steinberg's cell.
To be honest, we coulda used him last night down on 4th Street. I'd fight a bobcat in a dark room with a switch for Cap'n Zing but there's no denyin' he got a little carried away tellin' our 13th man, who'd had about the same number of beers, that it was OK to applaud the European Rooskies when they miss putts. We don't even do that back in Scratch Ankle. We just take their money. And I'll tell you true, I'd rather jump barefoot into a bucket of porcupines than make them volcanic-ash-eaters bow up like Halloween cats while we're tryin' to beat 'em--even if I do encourage the crowd a little myself from time to time, like I did back on the seventh, then a little bit more on No. 12 when I made that yabba-dabba-do-size putt, and then there was that time on 16, too. Heck, all I wanted to do was get 'em yellin' a little bit, and Mr. Lee looks at me like I'm keepin' his scorecard or something.
Actually, it was probably good to watch in the morning, being a rookie and all, and hear all them Boos every time I showed up at a green. Anthony Kim and Phil Mickelson were 3 down with six to play and got a tie, which they refer to in fractions here. Everyone knows math ain't my strong suit. Man, A.K. loves watchin' Phil putt. He stands there with his hands on his knees like Alex Rodriguez gettin' ready to smother a seein'-eye grounder. How about the kid? He's got Phil hungrier than Monty at an all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast. And A.K. says he still wants to come visit to get his first deer when the weather turns, which would be slicker than snot on a glass eye, as far as I'm concerned.
Cap'n Zing put me out with my Kentucky Holmes Boy, J.B., who the truth is, only has two speeds, slow and stop. At least we speak the same language, so to speak. He also just happens to hit it from here to East Jesus, if East Jesus is way left or way right or way long. But if I had a swing like that on my back porch, I'd ride it every night, too.
Anyway, we were playin' Mr. Lee and someone named Soren Hansen, who's got a golf swing so smooth it's like a gravy train with biscuit wheels. Plus, he's got the only name I ever seen that had the international symblem for 'no' in it. What's that all about? All I know is, he chipped in on me when I stiffed it on 16 and we tussled on. After stiffin' it on 17, me and J.B. screwed up and drove it in the water on the 18th. The truth is, the match was tighter than cheap teeth all day and, in the end, everyone's wheels was still turnin' but the hamsters were all dead. Like monkeys doin' math, we finished with fractions.
--Jim Moriarty continues to channel Boo Weekley*