The Miracle on #8

Okay, okay, okay, I get it…I promise to never again end a column with me in the hospital and no further explanation. I had several calls and emails asking for more info, in addition to a stern reprimand from Mom. I assure you all that if I had actually died, I would have included that in the column. Fortunately, however, I lived—I just didn’t want to give away the ending.
For those of you who used to read my newspaper column late in 2007 and early 2008, you received blow-by-blow descriptions of the surgical procedures and ensuing recovery. When we last left our soon-to-be-deposed editor’s health issues, he had received a skin graft that was about 90% successful. To this day, however, I’m still dealing with that final 10%.
Over the weekend, that final 10% was ground zero for an infection that was gradually turning my skin red and highly sensitive radiating up from the “issue” I still have on my abdomen. It continued to grow until I called the clinic on Monday and made an appointment for Tuesday afternoon to have it checked out by Dr. Snow.
Of course, as you learned last week, I had that little issue of participating in my first ever round of golf on Tuesday morning.
The weather was about perfect for me on Tuesday, with temps in the low 60s, as I whiffed my first three tee-off attempts from the ladies line on #1 at the Slayton Golf Course. What I would soon learn is that the other three in my group were nearly is bad as me, making the afternoon somewhat less painful.
We only kept track of the first nine strokes on each hole. I would finish the day several hours later having recorded “9” on seven of the nine holes we played.
We spent the next few hours defoliating trees, de-sodding fairways, filling creeks with balls and burying balls in sand traps. Somehow I began with a Top Flite ball on #1 and ended up with a Titleist on #9. We think it might have happened during the first water hazard incident. We sent a SWAT team (Lyrae) down the precipice to retrieve the ball lying in the mud that we thought was mine, when in reality mine may have been one of the 12 that were being slowly sucked downstream in the undertow.
With our motley group of hackers, it was always wise to keep your head up and ready to dive. You just really never knew which direction some of those loose cannons were headed.
Carts needed to be kept in the background also. Fortunately I had already de-boarded my cart the time it took that one attack from an incoming dimpled sphere.
As I mentioned, I had shot a “9” on seven of the holes. One of the holes I scored an 8, and through some sort of weird sports miracle, I shot par on the par 3 #8 hole.
After whacking my way through the first seven holes 20 feet at a time, I shot par on #8! Thinking that golf was finally starting to click with me, I swaggered up to the ladies teeing ground on #9, placed my ball on the tee, wiggled my backside for a second, addressed the ball (not sure exactly what that means), took a big backswing and with a mighty grunting swing…the ball traveled about three feet sideways. Somewhere around 10 or 11 strokes later, I put my ball in the cup.
The four+ hours we spent on the course were probably equal parts fun and frustration. Of course for those of us who bear the curse of unnatural plumpness, the game offers a few special challenges. The most glaring would be the fear that the cart is going to tip over on your side…before you even begin moving.
Then there is that apprehension that one of these times, you might not be able to pull yourself out of the sand trap and up that steep incline onto the green.
Oh, and then there is the reality that it takes a major expenditure of gumption just to try to touch your toes in front of your golf mates, and when you finally sink that putt, the ball ends up five inches BELOW your toes. I circumvented the problem with a combination of strategic positioning of my feet and proper crutch (putter) placement followed by a grand plié and half pirouette. I’m hoping there’s no video.
Turns out no humans or animals were injured during the debacle and I would guess I’ll be doing it again a year from now.
As I mentioned, my day also included a trip to the clinic. The infection that I first noticed two days before had brewed into quite a spectacle. Dr. Snow was concerned enough that he threw everything at it but the kitchen sink, with a threat that if it hadn’t improved by Wednesday, I would be spending the night at the THC Hilton. I ended up avoiding that scenario, and after a couple hours of stuff dripping into my veins and 10 days of horse pills I’m happy to say I’m slowly improving.
I always have some reservations when Dr. Snow starts putting stuff into my body. I have this irrational fear that he may have one of the nurses slip me a bag of his Republican serum and I’ll wake up to find myself making ludicrous accusations and speaking of pulling the plug on grandma. It didn’t help that I overheard him telling Kathy that if she notices over the course of the next week that I’m starting to lean a little bit to the right, that she should just ignore it. In my fitful dreams later that night, this comment was also accompanied by evil laughter and scary organ music…
I will be making a return visit to the clinic on Friday and hopefully the antibiotics will have done the trick. I’d hate to give the good doctor a chance to inflict another round of that mysterious cocktail he was pumping into my veins on Tuesday.
Years from now, I probably won’t remember much about the day.
For sure, however, the memories of The Miracle On #8 will never fade.