The Ricker likes to golf.
In fact, some of his golfing exploits are famous among my friends. The Ricker's uniform remains consistent with his wardrobe--short shorts and, most importantly, sandals. Really, he loved to golf in sandals. The Ricker was convinced that there golf shoes were invented by lazy greenskeepers for aeration purposes and that they serve no other purpose. Yeah, that's why everyone wears golf shoes.
For years, he teed off with his three iron, placing him about 50 yards behind the action, until I finally convinced him to upgrade to some modern Taylor Made woods (he still carried some ancient, actual wood Persimmon woods). The Ricker was also one of the first--and now last--people to carry a "chipper," a hybrid club that is half putter/half wedge.
The Ricker also carries his own beverages onto the course--usually a few cans of beer in his golf bag and a quart of margarita into two bike waterbottles. Of course, the beer stays in the bag until eventually he has a case of stale, warm beer that he passes out to friends. I've seen him sacrifice the welfare of passengers in order to save the margarita. Once, as he was driving along 16, by the old Forrester place, with Garrett and me in the cart, the Ricker was refilling his margarita while driving, to limited success. Garrett and I had a mix of cheap tequila and lime juice over our shorts and shins. I'm sure Garrett, a big follower of WWJD, appreciated this.
The Ricker's golf score has been coming down in recent years, which he attributes to playing more. I attribute it to more cheating. The Ricker is king of "improving the lie," kicking balls out from behind trees into the fairway. He plays multiple balls, playing his best shot. His round is a lot like a one-person scramble. And, I think he's started forgetting strokes as well. Realistically, the Ricker's 41 (on nine holes) is probably a 48 or 50.
Of course, with him playing the best golf of his life, he wants to share it with me, even though I no longer live in the same state. When I was in college, he would call me and leave messages on my answering machine. At the time, I used my computer as an answering machine, and it wouldn't play any message longer than five minutes. Very frequently, I would come home to see an unplayable seven minute, seventeen second message from my dad, followed by another shorter message. On the second message, which I could listen to, he would explain that he was telling me about his greatest round ever and only had one hole to go but was cut off. Other times, he would leave a message detailing EVERY SINGLE SHOT of his 18-hole round (he shot a 78 according to the Ricker scoring system).
The Ricker frequently calls me to tell me about his rounds, but with the onset of technology (and his improved understanding of how stuff works), he has taken to a new form of communication: scanning and emailing his actual scorecard.
In fact, some of his golfing exploits are famous among my friends. The Ricker's uniform remains consistent with his wardrobe--short shorts and, most importantly, sandals. Really, he loved to golf in sandals. The Ricker was convinced that there golf shoes were invented by lazy greenskeepers for aeration purposes and that they serve no other purpose. Yeah, that's why everyone wears golf shoes.
For years, he teed off with his three iron, placing him about 50 yards behind the action, until I finally convinced him to upgrade to some modern Taylor Made woods (he still carried some ancient, actual wood Persimmon woods). The Ricker was also one of the first--and now last--people to carry a "chipper," a hybrid club that is half putter/half wedge.
The Ricker also carries his own beverages onto the course--usually a few cans of beer in his golf bag and a quart of margarita into two bike waterbottles. Of course, the beer stays in the bag until eventually he has a case of stale, warm beer that he passes out to friends. I've seen him sacrifice the welfare of passengers in order to save the margarita. Once, as he was driving along 16, by the old Forrester place, with Garrett and me in the cart, the Ricker was refilling his margarita while driving, to limited success. Garrett and I had a mix of cheap tequila and lime juice over our shorts and shins. I'm sure Garrett, a big follower of WWJD, appreciated this.
The Ricker's golf score has been coming down in recent years, which he attributes to playing more. I attribute it to more cheating. The Ricker is king of "improving the lie," kicking balls out from behind trees into the fairway. He plays multiple balls, playing his best shot. His round is a lot like a one-person scramble. And, I think he's started forgetting strokes as well. Realistically, the Ricker's 41 (on nine holes) is probably a 48 or 50.
Of course, with him playing the best golf of his life, he wants to share it with me, even though I no longer live in the same state. When I was in college, he would call me and leave messages on my answering machine. At the time, I used my computer as an answering machine, and it wouldn't play any message longer than five minutes. Very frequently, I would come home to see an unplayable seven minute, seventeen second message from my dad, followed by another shorter message. On the second message, which I could listen to, he would explain that he was telling me about his greatest round ever and only had one hole to go but was cut off. Other times, he would leave a message detailing EVERY SINGLE SHOT of his 18-hole round (he shot a 78 according to the Ricker scoring system).
The Ricker frequently calls me to tell me about his rounds, but with the onset of technology (and his improved understanding of how stuff works), he has taken to a new form of communication: scanning and emailing his actual scorecard.
posted at 11:22 AM
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