December 12, 2011

[Ed. Note: Received this via e-mail the other day from Ben “The Funny Guy” Andrusaitis, five-time Goodboys Invitational champion and one of the Founding Fathers of Goodboys Nation. Hope y’all enjoy it.]

A Christmas Visit by TFG

The following is a true story, based on reality, as I see it.

At the end of every golf season I make a point of looking back and making an assessment of my game, sort of a “state of my game” meditation. A few days ago, I made myself a cocktail (chocolate martini), sat in my chair and began to ruminate on my game. Had a pretty good year in my golf league; dropped to a 9. Played pretty well at Killa’s [Ed. note: Goodboy Steve “Killer” Kowalski] stag (golf and otherwise), he and I beat a couple of young whipper snappers even though I got the worst hangover in 10 years (it was a paranormal hangover, believe me!). And of course I won the Good Boys Invitational (they’ll call it Good People over my cold dead body) with Vegas [Ed. note: Goodboy “Vegas” Clark, he’s on the left in the champions photo, that’s TFG on the right] – we made a pretty good team and my game held up pretty well over the weekend (Vegas’ shortgame was “otherworldly”). My iron play was much improved, I have worked on a “dead hands” Steve Stricker-like swing and gotten much more consistent. My putting was OK, shortgame was good. But, my driving and wood play continued to be inconsistent, one day I have the “lefts”, the next, the “rights”. Got a new driver with 11 degree loft to quiet my swing –no joy. What now!? Get another driver (I hear those TaylorMades are miracle workers, take a lesson from a pro – maybe help from a higher power is the answer). I have been struggling with this for over 20 years, back to the beginnings of GBN. What to do, what to do. As visions of the Medicus and the SwingSnazzy floated in my head I drifted off into a martini fueled sleep (I think). Next thing I know, a voice rouses me and I hear:

“Hey buddy boy, I hear you’re having trouble with your swing”

I opened my wondering eyes and there is Mike “Doc” Frechette standing there wearing green Banlon pants and holding a gallon decanter of Wild Turkey and 2 glasses.

Ben: “Holy shit, where’d you come from?”

Mike pours 2 doubles, hands me one and says, “With all this talk about paranormal, other worldly and higher power what do you expect, you were pretty much screaming at me to appear. That’s how it works, when you are at your wits end, 3 down with 4 to play, driving the ball at right angles, you will be heard. Lets drink to GBN and you’re right; anybody tries to change things to Goodpeople and I got some friends down below who will help you out – some things are sacred”.

“So that’s how it works? All that religious mumbo-jumbo is true?”

Mike pours us another, hands it over, “Nah, not all of it by a long shot. Live a good life, stay in the short grass – the rest is bullshit”. Mike whacks down the Turkey and, “So back to your swing – what a mess – Heh, Hah.”

“Yah, no shit Sherlock, I thought you were here to help. Go ahead and wave your magic wand and help out my driving”.

With that, Mike poured us another double, whacked it, then looked straight into my eyes. It was a look I hadn’t seen since Gaylord went after Shank at Portsmouth. [Ed. note: That story from Goodboys lore is only available on a need to know basis, and frankly, this audience doesn’t need to know!!]

And all he said was “Bob Mann”.

I spit up the Turkey, “Bob Mann! Jesus Christ, Mike, you come all the way from the great beyond and that’s all you got! Oops, sorry about the name in vain and all that.”

“Nah, no worries, the big guy has a sense of humor, hell of a golfer too, can really work the ball, has a little problem with the 3 jacks though, I think he’s gonna go to a long putter.”

“No kiddin, and I thought only hopeless dopes use those”

“I’d watch it buddy boy, a jokes a joke, but the tenth circle of hell is a tough hazard to get out of…”

“OK, sorry, but Bob Mann! You and I must have watched those instructional tapes 10 times. Super Team and all that, I just don’t get it. Use your big muscles to hit the ball, be athletic, come on, give me more than that! You had to go to Natural Golf to get over Bob Mann (and that ULowell coed).”

With that, Mike faded away as he said,“Bob Mann buddy boy, Bob Mann”.

I jumped from my chair with a start, Bob Mann? What did Mike mean? And then it hit me like a drunkin sucker punch from Bone [Ed. note: Legendary Goodboy Steve Piekarski], Mike was right, come through with your hips, fire the right side and deaden the wrists! I had to find out. It didn’t matter it was 45 degrees out, I headed for the driving range. When I got to the range nobody was there, but (miraculously) the ball dispenser was open and on automatic. I got a bucket and went out to the range. It worked! Ball after ball hammered 260 down the middle. “ Mike you were right!” And just then I saw Mike out on the range laughing, whacking a double and saying, ”I always was buddy boy, I always was”.

Filed in: Goodboys by The Great White Shank at 00:31 | Comments Off on A Christmas Miracle
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