Reprinted by polular demand...
At long last, it's time for the annual LCCC La Buena Bola member-guest golf tournament, where 72 two-man teams will be locked in mortal combat beginning on Wednesday afternoon. Though the tournament itself lasts but three days, the story lines generated each year at "The Bola" are passed on from barstool to barstool, and often from generation to generation. Here is one such story featuring my brother, Chris (a.k.a., The Spoon).
Act One: The Collapse
In June 2008, Spoon arrived in Dallas for his very first Buena Bola. He pronounced his game to be fit as a fiddle - long and straight with the driver, precise with his irons, and deadly around the greens. The Brothers Wenning were going to be the team to beat, he crowed, while chest-bumping me across the baggage claim area at DFW.
After an enjoyable practice round with Spoon and my son, we showered, changed, and repaired to the ballroom for tournament registration. As I prepared to fetch cocktails, Spoon informed me that in an effort to improve both his game and his liver, he'd recently sworn off his beloved Grey Goose vodka (aka, the "Devil Juice"). What he didn't inform me was that he'd apparently sworn off golf as well.
In stark contradiction to the game he described at DFW, Spoon proceeded to play like a man possessed. By demons. Over the next three days, he hooked, sliced, thinned, chunked, skulled, and bladed his ball all over the course, and could not have made a single putt if the cup had been the size of a laundry basket. Though we had a grand time as we always do when we play together, Team Wenning fell down the leader board faster than a greased manhole cover, leaving a trail of crumpled Bud Light cans, cigar butts, and conceded putts in our wake.
Though we finished last in our flight, we finished first in beers consumed. He begged me for a chance at redemption, promising me he would bring his game next time if I would only invite him back.
Act Two: The Redemption
Said invitation having been tendered, Spoon arrived at DFW for the 2009 Bola determined to atone for the train wreck of a performance the prior year. As a result of monsoon-like conditions that washed out Day 1 of the event, the format was shortened to a two-day, 36-hole best ball tournament.
To the relief of the tournament committee and the 64 teams of combatants, Friday dawned hot, clear, and bright. After consuming a heart-healthy breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausage, bacon, biscuits and gravy, and bacon, Spoon stepped to the #10 tee and proceeded to rip his drive directly down the center of the fairway - the #1 fairway. After dumping his third shot into a greenside bunker, he deftly bladed his bunker shot across the green into the opposite trap, and repeated the feat again in returning the ball to the original trap before pocketing the ball. Fortunately, his partner bailed him out with a nice sandy to save par.
On the next hole, the tough uphill par 3 11th, Spoon's handicap afforded him a stroke to work with as he vowed to get the team into red numbers. He stepped confidently up to the tee box, proclaiming a cut shot with a hybrid to be the ideal play to the sloped, heavily bunkered green. Indeed, it would have been the perfect shot, if only Joe Finger (the course architect) had opted to place the green in the cul-de-sac of the adjacent neighborhood, which is where Spoon's ball landed, knocking a child off her bicycle, hitting a Verizon FIOS technician in the groin, and leaving a small dent in a Honda Civic. Out of the hole again, his older brother picked up the team again with a nice up-and-down out of the rough to save par. At that point, Spoon discovered two things:
1. An endless supply of Bud Light.
2. His golf swing.
With the former acting as some form of magical swing lubricant, and the latter returning to a state of technical perfection not seen since the 1981 St. Mark's Club Championship, Spoon picked up both his game and his partner, allowing Team Wenning to finish the first round at a net 65, good enough for 2nd place in our flight. In an effort to be razor sharp for the final round, the team decided to make it an early night, imposing a curfew while opting for a light dinner of red wine, Bud Light, onion rings, BBQ pork sandwiches, and vanilla ice cream. Vowing to get a good night's sleep, Spoon was true to his word, passing out on the couch at 10:00 PM.
Spoon had his game face on the next day, and arrived at the course with steady nerves, a steely resolve, and a case of the runs (brought about by the onion rings). After a harrowing trip to the men's room and another heart-healthy breakfast (during which time I reminded him that gravy was not a beverage), we headed to the first tee on a hot, humid day. Alas, our first five holes appeared to be an unfortunate reprise of last year's final round, where we folded like a cheap beach chair under Charles Barkley. Starting off on #10, Spoon was either in the water or OB on four out of the first five holes, while my game steadily sunk to the level of my playing partner. We made the turn at +2, four shots worse than the previous day, knowing that we would need to go low on the last nine holes to have any chance of winning our flight.
After a tepid bogey on #1, the team gradually caught fire, with my birdie on #4 getting us back to E/+2, a net birdie for me on #5 to get us to -1/+1, Spoon's birdie on #7 getting us to -2/E, and a net birdie for me on #8 getting us to -3/-1. As we stepped to the tee on the 9th and final hole of the tournament, both of us getting a stroke, we knew we had to make par/net birdie to have any chance of finishing in the money for our flight.
After finding the fairway with our drives, my approach shot came to rest 15 feet left of the flag, while Spoon's came up short on the right front edge of the green some 50 feet from the cup. Telling him to lag it close for par so I could take a run at birdie, Spoon did one better.
He holed it for a birdie/net eagle, a putt that might have been slightly tougher than the one Happy Gilmore sank to defeat Shooter McGavin to win the Gold Jacket. Tending the pin, I watched in delight as the ball dove into the cup with such force that it swirled around the bottom of the jar like a turd going down a toilet. The jubilation that ensued was no less unbridled than when Justin Leonard sunk his snake at The Country Club to win the Ryder Cup for the USA in 1999.
We repaired to the 19th hole where the Goose finally came out, accompanied by some nice Ruby Red grapefruit juice. As we savored our cocktails, our back-nine charge, and Spoon's historic putt, we waited in air conditioned comfort for the first-round leaders to come into the clubhouse, while Spoon accommodated numerous interview requests from the club staff, our fellow combatants, and Jim Nance. As it turned out, the leaders (the Brothers Montgomery), had gone high for the day, leaving both teams in a dead heat for first place in our flight at a combined 133.
Per tournament rules, a scorecard playoff system was invoked to break the tie, and my par on the #1 handicap hole (#5) proved to be the difference. We were declared the champions of our flight, finishing second overall in the field of 64. My brother bellowed in joy at having redeemed himself, nearly breaking Mr. Tee's wrist with a wicked high-five. With visions of dollars dancing in my head, I proceeded to dance on a chair in celebration, feeling that the table was a bit too unsteady for such a jig given the effects of heat, sun, beer, and Goose.
We headed home to prepare for the big victory dinner-dance, cocktails in hand, cigars blazing from our mouths, and Springsteen blasting from the iPod. After a quick swim, shower, and change of clothes, and aided by our designated driver (my wife), we returned to the club for a wonderful evening, collecting both our money and our trophies. Chris reverted back to Margaritas (deftly deflecting the tip of the little bamboo umbrella with his glasses with each sip), while I enjoyed a small flock of Geese in celebration of our back nine charge, Spoon's historic putt, and our bulging wallets.
An unforgettable week...
