Returning to the Scene of the Crime

My good friend and college roommate, Steve, sent me a picture of a scorecard with just 12 holes completed. The text simply said, "Remember this?" He had finally cleaned out his golf bag from his last round of golf 22 years earlier and found the scorecard in a pocket. The question was rhetorical, of course; he knew I remembered. 

I was driving with Michael Bamberger to Philadelphia, and we were talking about my life for his book, "Ball in the Air." I told him that in my younger years, I partied hard and felt the need to say I regretted some of it. "But some of it was really fun, right?" Michael asked. Of course, he was right, as he always is. This was one of those times. 

I played hockey with Steve and Kurt (not their real names, as I'm not sure they want our drunken debauchery shared with the world) since we were kids. When we all eventually ended up at Michigan State, we got an apartment together. 

We were great friends, sharing a love for NHL ‘98 on PlayStation, sports, gambling, and drinking. A picture of responsibility we were not. But man, we had fun. Kurt drank Natural Light and smoked like a chimney. Steve and I drank Jack Daniels and Coke when we had cash, and Canadian Mist and Coke when we didn't. A typical night was drinking, watching sports, drinking some more, playing NHL ‘98, and at 3 a.m., wrestling with the reality that we had class in five hours. Steve always made it to class, Kurt did sometimes, and I rarely did. 

After I graduated (by some miracle), I moved out to my own apartment and ran a small group of restaurants. I was making about $45,000 a year and thought I was rich. I decided to buy a season pass to a nice public course in the East Lansing area called Timber Ridge. I think the season pass cost $2,000. It was sticker shock for a kid from a small northern Michigan town where our family membership was $500, but I bit the bullet and joined. 

Steve and Kurt had probably played golf 15 times in their life, but I invited them out soon after joining. Although Steve had started his job as an engineer and Kurt was completing his doctorate to become a veterinarian, our drinking hadn't slowed down much. Golf made for an excellent excuse to day drink. 

The picture of the scorecard made me laugh 22 years later as a flood of memories from the entire day returned. 

After picking up the boys on my way to the course, I remember lecturing them that this wasn't some crappy course – it was a nicer club, of which I was a member, and we needed to behave accordingly. "We’ll just have a few" was always our motto, and although we never stuck to that, I was determined to do so on this day at the new club. 

After checking in, I went to the bar and ordered two double Jacks, got Kurt a six-pack of beer, and headed out. 

As the beverage cart greeted us on the second hole, we each got another double "just in case we don't see her again for a bit." From there I lost count, but I do remember that by the turn, the "let's be responsible and just have a few," was gone. 

Looking at the scorecard 22 years later, it looks like on the 9th tee, I went from "I'm perfect," to "Which ball do I hit?" I was 1 over par through eight, but Jack Daniels always wins, and I doubled nine and tripled ten. 

I also remember how much we laughed. At one point, Kurt struggled to get the ball airborne, and Steve and I were laughing on our backs in the fairway. We laughed so hard. The memory still makes me smile. 

Things took a turn on 12.Steve’s text from last week read "The scene of the crime looks like Bonnie's Leg, where Nightcrawler (Kurt's nickname for his many nights of crawling to bed after a few too many) piled the cart into the tree." 

After yet another errant shot, I remember Kurt jumping in the cart sitting in the rough. He yelled, "WOOOHOOOO" (we may have added that part over the years, but it makes the story better) and turned the cart quickly toward his ball. Unfortunately, a large oak tree got in the way. 

Kurt was catapulted out of the cart and ended up on the ground. The cart was missing its right front feel, and Steve and I stared at him, stunned. He got up, dusted himself off, and proudly proclaimed he had hardly spilled a drop of his beer, which he was still holding. 

If you could actually die from laughter, I would have at that moment. Laying in the middle of the fairway on Bonnie's Leg, I gasped for air between the uncontrollable laughter. Kurt lit a cigarette and proclaimed that the cart was "fine" despite the wheel not being attached. His attempt to drive it was fruitless. We gathered all the stuff from their cart, threw it into mine, and returned to the clubhouse to explain. 

I had to pay $500 to fix it, and I didn't show my face around the club for at least a month. I was too embarrassed to go back. In those 22 years, we have laughed about this story countless times when we gather each deer season at Steve and Kurt's camp. The memory is well worth the $500. 

Kurt is now a veterinarian, has five boys under the age of eight, and doesn't smoke or drink. Steve has one child and has advanced as a leading auto industry engineer. I tweet about golf. 

Bamberger was right – some of it was really fun. 

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