by Jerry Honigman
GOLF
I love golf. A fantastically beautiful game. I just love it.
Many people don’t, and I realize that. They just don’t understand. They fall back on old saws like “watching paint dry” and “they’re not real athletes.”
But they are. Playing a round of golf requires, in addition to the actual physical aspects of playing the game, walking approximately five or six miles per round, up and down often hilly terrain, five days in a row (counting at least one practice round prior to a tournament), week after week, and countless hours on the practice range and in the training facilities. It’s a never-ending physical endeavor, constantly striving for improvement and fitness (okay, okay – John Daly).
I have played the game my whole life, and I’m worse than I’ve ever been. The older I get, the more my game stinks. Which is why my current foursome plays with our own set of rules and understandings. You see, golf comes with a mind-numbingly detailed book of rules and penalties, often antiquated and silly in their intent and execution. We, on the other hand, don’t like rules and tend to avoid penalties at all cost.
We embrace our own game’s idiosyncratic parameters. First of all, we no longer play the standard 18 holes. For the last two or three years, we have just played 9. This achieves two important goals: saving time and money. Playing 18 will take about six hours out of your day, whereas 9 will only require a three-hour window.
We’re allowed to hit two balls off of the first tee and pick the better one to play (unless those two sucked so badly that a third is called for). At any time, you may claim a do-over on a lousy shot, known in the golf world as a Mulligan. If you would like to take another stab at a putt on the green, you can take a Pulligan. And, the first time your ball goes in the sand or the water, you get a Gilligan.
In addition to these allowances, if a particularly crummy shot prompts one of your playing partners to utter the admonishment, “If I were you, I’d hit another one,” don’t ask why. Just drop a ball and try again. That about covers it. Ready to play?
First, I need to stop at Academy Sports to pick up a new box of hail-sized golf balls. And then it’s off to the course where I check in with my senior and 9-hole discounts. I’m always asked if I would like a bag of practice balls to take to the driving range before we start, and I always explain that I feel I only have a finite number of swings in me, and I don’t want to waste them practicing before I play.
Now it’s time to hop in the cart and head to the first tee, where there ensues a series of stretches and accompanying noises in order to properly loosen up before we begin. This takes a good twenty to thirty seconds.
Here it is: “go” time. I place my tee in the ground, address my ball (“Hello, ball”), picture the perfect drive which I’m about to unleash, and then give it my mightiest swing.
Uh oh. Oh, shit! Look out, Cleveland!! FORE!!!!!
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FROM THE “SMALL WORLD” DEPT.
A couple of decades or so ago, there was an eatery on Highway 28 East in Pineville called “Niko’s Italian Restaurant”. By all accounts, it was very authentic and very good, with a small but loyal clientele. Authentic, good, locally owned in Central Louisiana? Naturally, it soon went out of business.
Around the same time there was a blues musician in the area called B.B. Major. His actual name was Image Hilaire, which I thought was more evocative, but, what do I know? I ain’t got the blues. Playing behind him in the B.B. Major Blues Band were Bud Albright on drums, Alexandria Zoo Director Les Whitt on Hammond organ, Monty Lamaze on bass, and Shane Ward on rhythm guitar. They recorded a couple of CDs, produced by Bud, and played all over the state, including an appearance at Jazz Fest in New Orleans.
Europe has been known for its rabid blues fans for years and plays enthusiastic host to events and festivals catering to the genre. Take a black blues guitarist from the Delta (or, at least Delta adjacent) and slap the moniker “BB” on him, and you’ve got a plethora of European aficionados salivating at your beck and call.
In the summer of 2003, the B.B. Major Blues Band received a wonderful opportunity in the form of an invitation to play a two-week tour of Italy. There were blues festivals in towns all throughout the Italian countryside, and two weeks of traveling Italy and sharing their music was a dream come true. Upon their arrival in the country, the band was assigned an Italian liaison/tour guide/translator for the duration of their stay. His name was Gianni. Bud, as the de facto leader of the group, met with Gianni and introduced himself and the band.
Gianni, in his broken English asked, “Where you from in America?”
Bud replied, “We’re from Louisiana.”
“Ah. Where from in Louisiana?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t know of it. It’s a little town called Pineville.”
Gianni was excited. “Ah! Pineville, yes?! You know Niko?”
