Myths of the Legends 2012- 2013
THE LORD MAYOR OF WALES
The sky was blue, and the sun was high, though the wind was blustery and cold--a harbinger, perhaps, of the winter to come--as the Legends of the Game stepped once more onto their vaulted playing fields, their Valhalla of golf for another rousting joust. Among the group were two tall, dark-haired strangers. Some of the Legends figured them for a couple of ringers that the Prankster, Jack, had brought with him. But, no, the gentlemen were actually Rich Lehrer and Nick Faldo, OBE, here on the grassy links along with a film crew, no doubt to record the history of the Legends themselves. That is certainly what the court Jester thought as he accosted Sir Nick, telling him of his best friend from across the pond, Sir Alan--The Lord Mayor of Wales. "Really!?" replied the actual Knight of the Realm with his smarmy British accent. The Legends teed off, followed by the handsome strangers and their film crew. And so the day went; the Golf Channel commentators filming against the backdrop of the cemetery, just in time for Halloween! Some of the Legends even teed off with Sir Nick and companions as their gallery: talk about pressure. But, the day would end, stories would be told, and the Legends would walk--once again--into the fading light.
ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE
The seasons had changed, seemingly in an instant, from glorious summer to chill winter, though the day had warmed under the blue sky and bright yellow sun. Better here, no doubt, than the northern reaches of the country, recovering from a wandering hurricane and a nor'easter that had blown up from Alabama?? Many of the Legends of the Game gathered at the vaulted halls of their Valhalla of golf this Wednesday, Mac--the Scot, the Prankster--known for bringing ringers into the circle of LOFT, the Town Crier--named thusly because his voice could be heard from every corner of the course from the minute he arrived to the minute he staggered to his new black steed, the Jester--of course, suffering mightily as he struggled to move around the course without the aid of a cart, Thor--whose drives brought down the thunder from the skies, No Pain--perhaps to also be known as No Desire, the White Knight--Alba, White, Weiss, Blanco, the Italian Stallion--The ScudFather, and more--whose names have not been ascribed. Thirteen in all, the same number that lined up to play last Friday; and, again, some would find luck, and some would find disaster.
And so it went, as always, as the final groups staggered into the halls of Valhalla, laying down coin and lifting up steins, for the day will end, and stories will be told--a frightening tale, this time, of the coming Zombie Apocalypse which would both entertain and terrify the Legends as they listened to the Bard spin his tale of the coming end of times; and after that fright, they would all carefully help one another to their homeward bounds in the now dangerous dark, the hound of horror at their heels.
Zombie Apocalypse!
It was the first day after the end of civilization as manly white men would know it. "Why," said the Jester, did they all know that every minority in the country had voted for the dark, foreign born, pagan. And that every single white person in the country had voted for the righteous, son of a plutocrat. "And still," he said, "the dark pagan could not be beaten": there was no longer hope, they were forever outnumbered. Of course, the Jester was overlooking the fact that about 60% or more of all the women in the country, regardless of color or anything else, had actually voted for the dark pagan. Just imagine what will happen now that women actually realize that they have total control over their own plumbing and the entire reproductive process, what power they possess. Oh, yes, some of you think, no doubt, that you are necessary in this the continuation of the race, but--really--any of us will do just about anything with little more encouragement than a wink, some cleavage and shake of the hip from a charming lass.
So drunk with power, this is the beginning of the Zombie Apocalypse; the women will lead the march to the end of civilization--women who don't like to be told what to do (OK, except for those who think that Fifty Shades of Gray was an actual autobiography). Soon, spoke the Bard, with the darkness filling the room, the unwashed masses, those who pay no taxes and live only to suck on the public tit, will take over power. Soon, they will be sucking the marrow out of the bones of those who work and hoard and yield power over so many today. Thus will the Zombie Apocalypse continue. Even now, the Bard prophesized, God is raining down his wrath over the Northeast for their Electoral College contribution to the triumph of the dark pagan: He is sending hurricanes and wind and snow to punish the sinners. But, spoke the Bard, it is to no avail, the Zombie Apocalypse is upon us. The poor, the unionizers, the women, those with color in their skin will soon be upon the master. The massacre will be upon us and the Union is doomed. The Zombies, whispered the Bard hoarsely, will feast on your flesh, suck out your brains and take all your money.
This is the horrifying story the Bard told to the gathered Legends, and terrified (who wouldn't be!) they pondered their future as the dying sunset settled in with deepening dread--their mood both dreary and dire.
VOLATILITY
The clouds hung oppressively low in the grey sky, without a hint of sunlight. There was no change in the weather as the sun struggled, without success, to break through the canopy that blocked its restorative light. Nine Legends of the Game had gathered on this bleak Wednesday to attempt conquest of the legendary links of the Valhalla of their sport, the Winter Park links of nine holes. There were, assembled, The Scot--who kept the rabbit until hole nine, The Senator--who hit towering iron shots and a deadly draw off the tee on nine (around the tree, over the parking lot and back to the middle of the fairway), Thin Tony--who struggled with the thinness of the fairways, Thor--who played with only four clubs, The Town Crier, The Jester, The Prankster, No-Pain, and your totally Truthful Narrator.
They set off in groups of four and five, valiantly attempting to score points and beat all contesting opponents. And so it went, as always, some finding fortune, some finding disaster.
As always, the day did end, and stories were told. The Senator asked the Town Crier, "and what is new in The Market nowadays?" So, this is what we learned about that two-timing, un-touchable Medusa, who would turn men into stone.
Like any mistress, the market is ruled by volatility. This passionate exuberance and desire for thrills is the mark of any alluring enterprise between a hard driving man and an insatiable woman. The market longs for attention, and so it must be studied, in all its voluptuousness, with intense scrutiny. It must be lusted after and stared at, longed for and desired. Curiously, the competition for the attentions of the market are mostly concentrated among Day Traders, even though one would think this amorous pursuit would occur mostly in the darker hours of the night. But, no, at night one can only woo the foreign market: there is no clear consensus if this refers to those markets in other countries or those here with visas or green cards or even floosies who have scampered over the border and reside here illegally, ready for a $20 quicky at Charlie Schwab's.
Again, like any alluring beauty, the market is swayed by money--only money, and lots of it. She is charmed by the algorithms of computers who win her attention with gains of fractions of a cent, multiplied millions of times over. The agitated investor hopes for a spread of her desire to sell or to bargain. This constant arousal, this never-ending pumping of fiscal muscle into the market excites her volatility and--hopefully for the investor--leads to ultimate satisfaction.
There are many ways, both simple and arcane, and highly--acrobatically--technical, to create an affair with the market. One may make calls, which she (the market) may ignore, presumably. Another method is to make puts, that is to put into the market, whether it be a long or a short put. Apparently, surprise(!), she does not seem to mind if your put is long or short, just so it is well timed
Timing is everything to the market. Miss-time your put, your getting in and out, your thrusts into the dangerous, musky core of this beating engine of financial desire, and you may face ruin, disgrace and ridicule from those who know you cannot satisfy her ultimate goal: to soar to a climax of power. Time it correctly, and you and your mistress will find fulfillment beyond your wildest dreams.
Like any tawdry relationship, there are swaps (presumably requiring partners), deranged derivatives (the kinky stuff), and even leveraged buying (which involves naked shorts!) There have been reports of cross listing (an obvious hangout for transvestites), dark liquidity (vampires, naturally), bubbles and cycles and a dead cat bounce (you don’t want to know!), and the ultimate satisfaction--market depth.
And that only left the Legends to toast the lurking darkness, the chill of the day and of the season, and to gather themselves for the coming of night.
BATTLE OF JERICHO
It was a sunny, shiny day in the foothills of Tuscany, amongst the vineyards and olive groves of Bella Collina. Drive down into the village; circle the round-about; steer your carriage over the ancient cobblestones; pass over the flag-stoned courtyard (remnants from an ancient Roman era), and--climbing the rise up to the top of the hill--you will come to the imposing stone castle keep of the Bella Collina club house. The Men's Locker room itself is worth the trip--complete with billiard table, weight room, wing back chairs in front of the fireplace, Turkish towels and other amenities too numerous to mention. Then, down the Grand Staircase you go to settle in your private golf cart, brought round to you by servants wearing the livery with the Bella Collina crest and color. Somehow, the sun overhead seems brighter and the air itself more refreshing. Ah, yes, it is the atmosphere of opulence (well, bankrupted opulence, anyway). The four mansions on the thousands acres of property on the banks of the crystal blue waters of Lake Apopka sit majestically as if in their own Italian fiefdoms, lords of each own's estate. Into this rarified air strutted sixteen of the Legends of the Game and their valued guests. Hosted by the original Legend, The Cooper, the players in this holiday tournament were Crazy Horse Tail and Sitting Bull (his son), Thor, Just Plain Eddie, Steve the Scot, Steve the Dutchman, Don's Boss, Leif Erik's son, The Polish Prince, The Prankster, The White Knight, The Town Crier, No Pain Wayne, Jim Thorpe and (almost) The Last Eagle in the Edgewater Men's Group.
It has been said that it is difficult to capture the essence of Tuscany: the romance it seems to instill in women, the light that inspires painters, and the culture that was the origin of the Renaissance. Whatever that essence is, it is really not here in these beautiful hills that have been desecrated, as has much of what was once beautiful about Florida, with thoughtless leveling of the native, indigenous vegetation and wetlands. Here, among the rolling hills, not an original tree or native grass still thrives. Oh, yes, it is an impressive use of the natural topography: the rolling ridges unique to this part of the state. But, it is entirely artificial. As a golf course, it is a daunting challenge, with every hole--seemingly, impossibly--uphill, every shot blind, more sand bunkers and waste areas than fairways, the greens scooped and hollowed and slanted. One good golfer said it was the hardest course he had ever played; one (obviously a ringer), shot par. And so it went as usual, with many conquering the course and the cursed game and just as many flaming out in inglorious defeat.
But stories will be told. The fighting foursomes settled into the local tavern to settle their wagers, relive their battles, and toast both winners and losers. And so the day that began cold but clear and filled with promise, finished with mild triumphs and painless losses as it began to draw to a finish. Plans were made for days to come, the memories of the year vibrant and rich, while the vision of the future tentative and wishful. Another year was drawing to a close as the Legends wrapped their myths around themselves to protect from the certainty of the passages of time. The inevitable passages of life, like the passage of the seasons, were tangible now and (in many cases) both personal and physical. But legends and myths live on; that is why they are what they are. In the words of Lord Alfred Tennyson: Though much is taken, much abides; and though/We are not now that strength which in old days/Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are---/One equal temper of heroic hearts,/Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will/To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Eventually, they all made their ways' home, early enough to be in the broad daylight. And they were greeted, each one, by a seldom seen phenomenon: the full moon rising in the East as the sun was setting in the West--one silver orb substituting its reflected light for the fading of the other golden globe. A sunset and a moonrise! and this celestial act requires a story.
Joshua
Long ago, in a formal gathering of heads of state, the Spanish Ambassador--who was the host--gave toast to his master, the King of Spain (a polite way to make the other gathered dignitaries recognize the majesty of his leader), comparing his king to the sun. The French ambassador followed with a health to the King of France, whom he likened to the moon. It was then the English ambassador's turn, one Lord Chesterfield. "Your Excellencies have taken from me," he said, "all the greatest luminaries of heaven, and the stars are too small for me to make a comparison of my royal master; I therefore beg leave to give your Excellencies--Joshua!"
Lord Chesterfield's toast is a fine example of the Legends' power. He was, of course, referring to the Biblical story in which Joshua asked the assistance of God to stop the sun and the moon in order that the Israelites might finish a battle and conquer their enemies before nightfall. In this way, the English lord trash-talked both the Spanish and French ambassadors, eclipsing their divine rulers with political and religious reference, demeaning their earthly importance. Thus, the Legends withdrew into the righteous dusk of the day with moon and sun and mythological power seeing them safely home.
SPRING
On a glorious Wednesday afternoon, when everyone who still had a job was at work, the Legends of the Game once again found themselves at their Valhalla of the game of golf--the Winter Park public golf links. Winter had finally ended; Spring lasted one week, and now they were into Summer with temperatures hovering around 90 degrees. But it was a beautiful day, with floating clouds and a sky the color of blue that could drape the shoulders of the Virgin Mary. The wind was up, and the breeze kept the heat at bay as the sportsmen teed off on their round, ready for their weekly worship to the golfing gods, though some would only serve penance. At times, however, the breeze freshened into a stout wind that seemed to whistle down the fairways, turning the shots right and left as if they were congregants finding their way into the pews on either side of the cathedral's nave. Like awe struck altar boys at their first communion, the legends bathed in the baptism of the endless, deep, cerulean cosmos, their theology the rules of golf; their worship, the well struck ball; their joy, the expanse of heaven overhead.
The joy they felt was akin to the thoughts they may have had as younger men, boys-really, wondering at the eternal mysteries that lay under those plaid skirts that was the uniform of good Catholic girls, or (forgive me for my sins) whether it was really true that Catholic girls were actually the real wildcats of the feline tribe. They certainly looked soft and alluring (Damn you Satan!), and seemed to offer everything a boy could only wonder at or wish for. Ah, well, those days; those lusts; those half remembered but heart? felt memories.
And so it went. On hole one, the Town Crier hit his second shot into Park Avenue. He hit his third shot into Park Avenue and had the unique distinction of hitting two cars, traveling in opposite directions with only one ball. Later, No Pain joined the lead group, completing the important basis of Western Civilization, the Judeo-Christian creed. His main role today was to harass the Town Crier to the point that he lost the rabbit to the Cooper. There are many other stories to tell, no doubt, but the day would end and the story must move, as must the country, forward, with or without those who can't understand that we have always had a polyglot population, and that the vote is actually democratic, whether or not you recognize the voting rights of minorities, the overlooked, the disenfranchised, the insulted and the underrepresented.
The golfers finally staggered into the club house, the second group nearly an half hour behind the first, for both communion (mostly beer) and confession (mostly lies). For their sins, they must play again on Friday and again and again, until--like those who believe in reincarnation--they are born again as golfers who can actually play the sinful game without self-doubt, without blasphemy, without hate for the prodigal shot; rather, they will play for the pure joy, pura vida, of evangelical release into the arms of charismatic acceptance of their personal flaws and for the game of golf.
The sufferers and the triumphant eventually staggered home in the new brightened night until only three worshipers remained, uncertain of their free will to leave, whether they were preordained to stay, or whether they could or should or would seek their way home into the uncertain and gathering gloom.
THE 21ST ANNUAL LEGENDS TOURNAMENT AT SEA ISLAND
History will record that it was not an auspicious beginning. No, it was actually dismal--what the weather experts called a mesoscale convective vortex: an event which pulls local winds into a circular pattern as it unleashes torrents of rain for hours. Rain cast down in sheets; visibility was cut to a few yards; coastal flood warnings were posted for all northern counties in Florida and all southern counties in Georgia, including Glynn--the locale of St. Simons and Sea Islands. In Punta Gorda, the site for next weekend's Players Tournament, the famed Sawgrass course was deluged by ten inches of rain. The causeway that allows golfers to walk to the feared 17th green was underwater. This was not the way to begin a golfing vacation.
Several members of the Edgewater Golf Group woke early Thursday morning to venture up to Sea Island, Georgia to begin several days of golf that would culminate in the twenty-first annual Sea Island Golf Tournament, hosted by the Town Crier. Loud and large as he may be, he is a gracious host and a brave man to allow the riffraff from the Edgewater Golf Group to invade his in-laws' vacation cottage for a weekend of recreation and drinking (for over 20 years!).
The day dawned dark and gray, exceedingly and depressingly overcast. A hint of doom hung over Interstate 95, and by the time some of the group drove through Jacksonville, visibility on the highway was down to about 20 yards. Things did not look promising for their 12:30 tee time. Onward they drove, and as they passed over the Brunswick suspension bridge, the suspension wires that (hopefully!) held up the roadway were thrumming and vibrating with the howling wind and the driving rain. Miraculously, as they made landfall on St. Simons Island, the skies cleared and the rain stopped. They made their way to the entry of Sea Island, home of the one per centers, and the skies actually cleared. It was as if the power of the money on the island controlled even the heavens above.
In the 1920's Sea Island was known by the name Long Island, and a business called the St. Simon-Long Island Company was its proprietor. This company, composed mainly of Brunswick residents, realized that real estate near the beach would become highly desirable following completion of the causeway between Brunswick and St. Simons Island. During the 1924 year, the St. Simon-Long Island Company constructed roadways and house lots on the island and created a causeway connecting it to St. Simons Island. By December of that year the Long Island causeway, a simple dirt and mud road through the marsh, was inaugurated.
Years later, from 1998 to 2006, Sea Island underwent a sweeping renovation, updating three golf courses and adding a 65,000-square-foot spa and fitness center, a 2,000-bottle wine cellar and other costly accommodations. This spending spree would lead to bankruptcy in the land of the one per centers, but a golden parachute appeared in the form of the Sea Island Company which bought up all the holdings and dept and attempted to re-create the wealthy encampment that had begun years before.
In many ways, Sea Island still seems a breezy, worry-free Old South getaway. The cost of the islands’ homes averages $3.2 million, according to the Sea Island Company. Brooks Brothers could stock its catalog with Sea Island’s bronzed, shapely (and almost exclusively white) bodies. And politicians, professional athletes and C.E.O.’s still dream of retiring to Sea Island’s manicured, oak-studded mansions, understatedly called cottages. Since its development, Sea Island has attracted a well-heeled and powerful clientele, including visits from six United States presidents.
At Sea Island, beauty, distinction, and opulence come in several award-winning choices. A playground of the Southern rich, with its glorious ''cottages'' and expensive golf resorts, Sea Island is part of a chain of barrier islands with a rich history as a place where freed slaves established themselves as landowners after the Civil War. These days it is not much of a place to experience average America (especially for the descendants of the freed slaves), but it is a fine locale to shut out the rest of the world, view conspicuous architectural consumption and walk beaches that have little or no public access.
At the entry gate, it was as if the gatekeepers knew the Edgewater group did not belong and tried to deny them access to the land of the billionaires. But enter they did. What followed was two days of legendary golf, played in scattered rain showers and buffeting wind. The fearsome marsh holes were particularly grueling as the wind quartered off the inlet and the marsh grasses. On Thursday, Thor, the Town Crier, the Prankster and your Faithful (he's lying!) Narrator braved the elements and actually played excellent golf, considering the boggy course and the challenging wind. On Friday, more golfers joined, but the course was even wetter, with blowing mist and forceful gusts. Your Faithful Narrator played two of the best rounds of his life and was immediately tagged as a sandbagger. History would prove those haters wrong; he really is as bad as his handicap.
As is traditional with the Sea Island Tournament, the Steve's, both the Scot and the Dutchman, made a monstrous repast for the entire assembled host, now some twenty strong. Adding to the feast were dishes from Agent 007, the White Knight and Slingin' Steel, who brought along the famous butt that became the main course for the meal and for several snacks and lunches later in the weekend. People drank; lies were told; fables were elaborated upon; poker was played. All twenty kept an eye on the weather which was threatening to unleash more tropical misery on the southern Georgia coast.
Friday was created with a dreary promise: dark forbidding skies, misting rain and blowing gales. The twenty teed off. They consisted of the Town Crier--host to all, the Cooper, Thor, the Polish Prince, the Prankser--winner of the vaulted Pfingstag cup (a year's long points challenge), Doug Pfingstag, Slingin' Steel, the Jester, Sir Alan--Lord Mayor of Wales, Leif Erikson, Agent 007, Steve the Scot, Steve the Dutchman, the Italian Stallion, Gator Bait (Tom Minton), Ruby Red, the Leprechaun (Mike Smith), the White Knight, Crazy Horse Tail, and your Trusty Narrator. Yes, twenty in all drove off into the inhumane elements.
There will be--and should be--tales told of the day, the antics, losses and triumphs of the group and their game. One story entails how Gator Bait got his name. On the ninth hole, he was studiously focused, as only an anal, um, sorry, analytical mathematician can be, as he lined up an important putt. Backing off to gain perspective, to create a geometrical pattern and to use a theorem with which to score his desired points, he stepped off the green into the lake which fronts it. Luckily for him, the gator which patrols the pond was not underneath him as he landed, sputtering and swimming for safety.
But the main event of the day was the weather. As each group reached the scenic marsh holes, they realized that they were in for a daunting challenge. The course was already soaked to the point that the entire round was played "cart path only"; every shot had to be walked to; casual water dotted the grounds and flooded the holes out on the marsh. The Z hole was an impossible mess: soggy, windy and nasty. Few broke triple bogey to score even a single point. To their left, the marsh and inlet drifted into a hazy infinity, punctuated only by islets of grass and palmetto standing firm against the Atlantic gales. The ocean itself seemed to sweep in timeless cycles, flooding the swamp and its inaccessible inlets, blowing grass that bend before the wind, a harsh spectacle, as if it were the oldest place on earth. The outline of a tanker, like a distant mirage, was just discernible on the horizon.
By the time the final grouping had reached the seventeenth hole, the storm was in a fury. The clouds were shredded all across the sky (as they struggled up to their tee shots), ragged strips of blue and black and purple-grey. The storm clouds stretched straight ahead of them, rising to the horizon where lay a strip of light beneath the bruising where you could see the rain falling in sheets. On the eighteenth, they were alone on the course, visitors in an alien land. They stepped out onto the blustery final hole as the rain began falling in earnest--horizontally. By the time the last foursome reached the green, they were soaked. And so, with the wind whipping around their legs, and the rain running in sheets off their rain jackets, they made their way slowly and carefully across the final fairway.
Back in the safety of the Wommack cottage, scores were recorded; math was conducted; winners were determined. Most of the group had struggled, based on the amount of points they gained. Scottish Steve was low man on the front. The "big'" winner for the day was the sandbagging Narrator (despite having only nine points on the front nine), who was on the winning team, front and back, low man on the back nine, and closest to one of the par three pins. He also paid off to several lucky individuals who had wagered on him in a bet too complicated to describe here.
Once again, the group was lucky enough to have the Steve's (with help from many) to prepare a repast of beef tenderloin, salad, baked sweet potatoes, asparagus, mushrooms, and blessing was given by Steve the Scot before dinner, followed by a sermon after the meal, a graphic remembrance of the strict Protestant background of his ancient lineage.
Again, as has been told for twenty years, fables were spun; rounds were heartily cheered; and a poker game broke out, this time with the Jester creating tales of woe, disarray and destitution. Those who remember should add to this legend with individual stories and tales of interest and high intrigue.
Sunday, the final day of the Sea Island Tournament, began with more promise, though the rain still fell, and the sky was gray, and the chill clung to course. Away the twenty went, with a gallery of gawkers and critics watching and evaluating each man's opening salvo. Finally, somewhere on the back nine, the sun broke through. By the time the groups reached the marsh holes, fearsome in the preceding days' wind and rain, it became a glorious day. The sky above opened as if heaven itself beckoned. The dismal doom was replaced by a deep, rich blue with the promise of a first love, one that hinted at unknown secrets, or--even--that girl you fell in love with (and she with you), that love that began with the power of passion and turned into a life of love and love for life. Ah, that premise, that promise, that passionate persuasion that drives youth forward into the lively future, the present that awaits us all.
The glory of the day remained until each group, yes, down to the last one, reached the final hole where the preceding comrades had gathered to kibbutz and cheer on each finishing Legend, with extra enthusiasm for the last golfer finishing the very last putt.
Again, the entire group staggered into the main house in groups. More statistics were recorded, numbers massaged, totals summed. The final result was that Slingin' Steel had the highest point total for the weekend and won the coveted title for the Sea Island Tournament and received the trophy from last year's winner the Leprechaun. He also cleaned up at poker, winning the entire pot on both nights.
Oh, no doubt, there are many more tales to be told, stories to be spun, but the Legends of the Game gathered their belongings and left the land of the affluent to once again join the common herd. Behind, they left a mostly clean couple of houses. Beds were stripped of linen, and towels were thrown into the laundry room. Kitchens were cleaned as well as guys can clean. But, after all, there were domestics coming to complete the final maintenance. And who can blame them after they had had a taste of the life; that's what servants are for.
And so, they loaded up their cars and SUV's and drove on home into the welcoming sunshine, staggered by the weight of expectations, lured by the sirens of wealth, fooled by their personal ambitions, but buoyed by the closeness of the camaraderie they had shared in an extraordinary place, far from their ordinary lives: poor folk in the land of the opulent.
