Heimlich Chronicles

By Alex Johnson

"I calls um! like I seez um!

I am feeling somewhat depressed by the deplorable weather. Snow, ice, freezing rain, and wind have dominated the scene since Tuesday, December 29, the date when five members of the Heimlich Team gathered at Astorhurst Country Club. Except for the course’s rock hard greens, conditions were favorable for good competitive golf and trash talking. We played consistently, a sign that our games are improving overall. The format was match-play. Although, no stokes were recorded, Chip Daddy Moreland concocted a 74 (?).

But, I must admit he drove the ball well, executed good approach shots, and staged an imaginative (and lucky as hell) short game. Chip Daddy during the Florida trip will press knees Wynne (now Bees). Given the former’s stellar play at Lost Nations, Airport, and Astorhurst, an upset is highly possible.

Only birdies held up today as skins. Tiger Whitley, with his new Cobra irons (and recently recovered manhood) produced six par's on the last seven holes. Simp Simpson played like a veteran, and Pooh Bear Johnson (now Steelhead) and V.J. Harris demonstrated that the oncoming winter would have little effect on their games.

During the outing, we speculated whether Eagles Eyes Baker and Cobra Guyton were receiving "considerations" from the travel agent for coordinating the upcoming Florida recess. We worried about Simp, who was with us. Usually unflappable and meticulous, the behavior of the erudite one is deviating toward that of his Heimlich compadres. Cursing, ill tempered, cracking on Chip Daddy, and fun loving are appearing as part of his demeanor.

Also his attitude toward his family is changing. On at least two occasions that I recall, he has forsaken the needs of his loved ones in the name of golf. The first sign of detachment appeared when he stranded his mother at Hopkins for five hours while he finished his round at Highland. The next time was at Lost Nations when his beloved wife was driven by ambulance, with police escort, to the hospital emergency room. Upon hearing from Ann, now strapped to a gurney, he remarked "call me back after the doctor examines you!"

Golf is difficult to enjoy without good friends to play with. An example of this relationship came during our last outing at Lost Nations. We played as a fivesome on the front nine. Steelhead scored 38; Chip Daddy, 38; V.J., 39; Tiger; 43; and Simp, 45. On the turn, the mean old Ranger informed us "no fivesomes." This directive was issued although the course was virtually empty. As we reluctantly formed into a pair and threesome, we experienced a sense of separation felt only by those who golf together regularly. Our games wilted on the back nine quicker than the second-hand roses Chip Daddy gave his wife on her birthday.

Given this experience, I advocate playing together in Florida. In fact, I think we should have a tournament on the last three days, similar to the 1998 Hind Lick (now Heimlich) Championship at Raccoon Hill. Except this tournament would be no cut stroke play. Therefore, each participant will earn money. Forty-five dollars would be the entry fee. First place would get $75; second, $60; third, $55; fourth, $50; fifth, $35; sixth, $30; seventh; $25; and eight, $20. Skins will be matched in your respective foursomes. What about trophies? I will work with V.J. on pairings.

Friendships in golf are tight. So tight, in fact, that they can serve to uplift the spirit after an argument with your wife, help you recover from a bad experience at work, and act as a balm for relieving physical pain and suffering.

I ran into an acquaintance at Shawnee Hills, who invited me to play with him and two buddies. One guy I knew. The other, I did not. Upon his arrival, the second guy was pointed out to me as he approached the 10^th tee from the parking lot after embarking from a Cadillac STS. He was an athletically built middle-aged brother, dressed impeccably in black corduroy pants, black Reebok windshirt over a white Nike "swooshed" turtleneck, and sported brown and white spikeless Dryjoys. The Callaway logo, which adorned his cap, was etched on his club assemblage from his Biggest Big Bertha driver, through his Big Bertha titanium irons, and to his Tuttle II putter.

As I shook his hand, its roughly hewn feel startled me. It was as though I was engaged with a prickly cactus. I peered down at that hand. It resembled blackened hamburger left to spoil in the sun after being mangled in a meat grinder. There were scars and open sores deep enough to expose flesh and blood. I looked at his face. It was no different from his hands. I could not look into his eyes. He invited me to ride with him in his cart. I declined his offer, explaining I needed to walk to stay warm.

I needed two holes to recover from our introduction. I finally accepted a ride after putting-out on hole number 11. The brother was funning, cracking hard on our playing partners. Good Heimlich material, on disability as a manager with GM, with plenty money to lose.

He explained to me that his condition, undiagnosed by the Cleveland Clinic, where he travels three times weekly for treatment, covers his entire body. He believes that the onset was more than 35 years ago during his tour in Viet Nam. Agent Orange victim? Perhaps. I finally got the nerve to look into his eyes. They sparkled like two brown jewels set in a head-sized overripe avocado. They were the eyes of a husband and father, a productive worker, and a good golf buddy.

Without considering the repercussions, I whispered "Man, I am sorry that this is happening to you." His response was reflective. "Alex," he said, "I thank God every day that I am alive. I have learned to appreciate the important things in life. My family, my accomplishments, and my golf buddies." I surmised that his car, clothes, and clubs – material things- were mere trappings. Those things important to him now are intangible, such as love and friendship.

When I spoke last with my acquaintance, he informed that his buddy’s condition, yet to be diagnosed, has deteriorated. He did not speculate on a prognosis. But given what I saw on that memorable day at Shawnee . . . . . Well, God bless him and keep him

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