The Boo Chronicles, Vol. 3
LOUISVILLE--I heard them volcanic-ash-sniffers didn't like me whoopin' up our 13th man yesterday but, to me, sometimes when you got nothin' to say, you say it anyway. Bless their hearts. Honest, I told Mr. Lee I didn't mean nothin' by it. Much. And we all good now. When we heard Mr. Nick decided to sit Mr. Lee and Sergio this morning it surprised just about everyone, includin' me. Sergio was a little puny, I guess, but Mr. Lee didn't like sittin' out for nothin'. But, you know, it's Mr. Nick's barbecue so he gets to pick the pig, I guess.
Me and my Holmes Boy, J.B., had us another go with Mr. Lee and that fella with the circles and the lines in his first name. And, to be honest, I put the restrictor plates on the celebratin'. I sure did. I ain't exactly certain, but I think Mr. Lee was trying to get in my head a little bit with all his frettin', but my mamma coulda told him that's a long, dusty road to nowhere.
Anyway, I was just tryin' to keep it between the ditches, and J.B. flat tore up the par 5s, but he spent some time in his pocket, too. I swear he's gonna be a heckuva a player if he ever learns to plow around the stump, if you know what I mean. And I really enjoyed seeing the President's daddy out there on the front nine, even though I thought their Cup was last year, wasn't it? And them Secret Service boys, how come they got 'Secret Service' written on the front of them golf carts? What kinda secret is that?
When I made that little ol' 2 at 14 and stiffed it out of the bunker at 15 I didn't say nothin' much at all to the 13th man. We was tryin' to get more than a fraction out the match this time around. I heard Mr. Lee been unbeaten as long as The King himself, Mr. Palmer, but there's nothin' cain't be fixed with a little hard liquor and a hammer. J.B., he's my hammer. We got us a full one.
Them three matches behind us were as tight as two Buicks in a toll booth. There were folks out there singin' some kinda song about oil, too. Oily, oily, oily, oily. I figure it must have somethin' to do with that fella they call The Mechanic. Anyway, all three matches went to the 18th, and all we got out of it was a couple of fractions, which added up to a two-point lead with just one day to go.
As for Sunday, wishin' and hopin' don't put presents under the Christmas tree. And scared money don't ever win nothin'.
*--Jim Moriarty continues to channel Boo Weekley.