Welcome back, y’all (for some reason I have been using the word ‘y’all’ lately despite being totally annoyed by this southern slang)! C.I.B.F. has been on a little of a late summer hiatus…just… because.
In any case, I have been pondering a very serious subject but one I have decided to view as a positive and possibly awesome opportunity for me. As many of you know we have a child, our only son Frankie, (yes, there is another Frank!) with autism.
The oldest of our three children Frankie, who is now 8 years old, is severely impacted by this disorder. He is completely non-verbal and faces some intense behavioral and social challenges. Since he was diagnosed at age 2, we knew he had an uphill battle with this very puzzling, incurable and incredibly widespread epidemic that afflicts 1 in every 110 children; making it more common than childhood cancer, juvenile diabetes and pediatric AIDS combined.
Needless to say, it has been a tough road for our family but that is not the moral of today’s story. While we continue to have very high hopes for Frankie’s future, there is a strong reality that we may need to care for him for the duration of our lives. Quite honestly, this possibility is, at the very least, worrisome but today it dawned on me that this situation may just evolve into a cool and fun existence…for me anyway.
Allow me to explain why…
Fathers and Sons, throughout the course of history, have possessed a very unique and almost indefinable bond with one another. Sure, some father-son relationships have been major disappointments (READ: Vito & Sonny/Fredo Corleone (Michael was a genius), George Bush & George W. Bush, Earl & Tiger Woods, and Martin & Charlie Sheen (and that strange Estevez person) but, as a rule, Dads and their Baby Boys are loyal, lifetime friends and confidants. As time rolls on and Frankie grows into a man, I may have an exclusive, and incredibly rare, access to the lifetime pass at a Boy’s Club!
In most “normal” families, fathers knowingly and willingly realize they will need to let go of those Apples of their Eyes. Whether Junior is off to college, decides to move out on his own or enlists in Uncle Sam’s Army, somewhere around the age of 18, he will want to take on this world on their own. Cut the cord. Be his own man. And it needs to be accomplished without the help of dear, old Dad.
For me, that day may never come and it struck me as a possibly perfect scenario!
I am fairly certain that our two daughters will move on with their lives someday. They will leave our nest to spread their wings which is fine (of course, I wish I could keep them under my protective custody forever). Additionally, my wife will surely grow somewhat bored with me and most certainly find my insightful wit less and less funny (actually, it has already happened!) as the years press on. Frankie, however, may just be with us for the long haul and just what the doctor ordered.
So, assuming his life skill abilities progress in a reasonable fashion, I may have an all-star roommate with no lease agreement attached. Think of the possibilities? Imagine being able to live with your college roommate, your best buddy, your wing man…forever (accompanied by your wife’s unconditional consent no less )? Think of the fun.
Once Frankie reaches a relatively adult age (I am thinking 15), I could have a backstage pass to my best pal; 24/7/365.
I can just hear it…
“Hey bud, beautiful day… let’s go golfing…Mom and I will have another anniversary next year! No worries”
“Franko, let’s hit the track and double the money you won on that scratch ticket!”
“Frank, remember, ‘Mum’ is the word (literally and figuratively) when she asks how many beers I had during our fishing weekend.”
And here is the best part? Mom (a.k.a. Mrs. Can I Be Frank?) can not utter a complaint. Not a one. Never. What mother in their right mind could ever complain about her husband spending quality time with there son – whether he has special needs or not!
On top of that, Frank, in all probability, will not be taxed with the burden, er blessing, of a girlfriend or wife. Another win for Dad! Why you ask? Let’s admit to a tried and true fact of life; as much as a boy is committed to his Old Man, the power of a good woman will trump that card; everyday and twice on Sunday. Those are just the rules – which I may have the privilege to break.
As a good friend of mine brilliantly stated, ‘When life hands you lemons…find someone whose life handed them vodka’. A wise outlook if you ask me.
Don’t want to get ahead of myself, but as they say is school, dare to dream.
In closing, break out the bunk beds, Frankie-Boy, cause we may just be roomies for life!
Love ya, buddy!
Dad
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Friday, August 5, 2011
FOUR! Golf Hacker Grievances
I am no Tiger Woods but I love the game of golf. I have played since a very young age. But even after more than 30 years of whacking around that little, frustrating white-demon of a ball, I am still a painfully average player. At this stage of my life, I have accepted the fact that golf is a hobby, at best, and I simply try to enjoy the experience. With so few opportunities to play, when I do have the chance (i.e a Window for your dedicated C.I.B.F-ers!) I need to soak in every minute of it.
This brings me to the point.
When I have the time to get out on the links, I want maximize my fun. In a perfect world, I have three great friends playing along side of me rounding out the foursome. However, many times only one or two of your compadres are available to join you on the course.
And herein lies the danger.
For you non-golfers, there is an unwritten rule that applies to groups less than four. Most golf courses, both public and private, prefer (dare I say demand) foursomes whenever possible to keep the pace of play moving and eliminate excess groups. Therefore, if you only have two guys in your group, golf course personnel do their best to pair you up with another two. Follow me?
Now, if you belong to a private club then this practice is somewhat less painful. Typically, you will be somewhat acquainted with your new playing partners and you can still have a pleasant round.
However, for the public course hackers, it is like a ‘buyer beware’ sticker for the golf world. Regardless of skill, personality, color, religion or creed you can be paired with ANYONE. And, frankly, I usually hate these people for a number of reasons.
Here is why…
A public golf course is, oftentimes, the ‘Village of the Damned’ for amateur players. Rules, restrictions and etiquette are frequently thrown out the window in the name of “everybody should have the privilege to play golf”. You know what? No, not everybody should.
While I am not trying to profile here, public links players can often be weekend warriors that march out every Saturday or Sunday to pound the living bejesus out of the ball, not to mention Mother Nature.
Their skill level is usually a C-.
Their grasp of the rules and regulations borders on criminal negligence.
Their respect for course property is like a vandal in heat.
Getting the picture so far?
Here is a visual in case you still can’t quite understand…
The Attire
Imagine two forty-something year old guys. Each dressed in a one-size-too-small golf shirt with a coffee/spaghetti sauce/blood stain on the front of it, a pair of cut off ‘jhorts’ (READ: jhorts= jean shorts), and some old school 1980s Spot Bilt coaches shoes that serve as a substitute for spikes. Odds are they have on some flimsy visor that was given to them for free that reads, “My Favorite Hole is the 19th!”
The Equipment
Golf rules clearly state that a player can have no more that 14 clubs in his/her bag. The weekend hack-attack usually has around 18. The mix of ‘weapons’ typically consists of a miniature golf putter he stole during his kid’s field trip to Canobie Lake, a set of irons that started rusting during the Clinton administration and, amazingly, a brand new driver (which he probably won in the office raffle). Also, these types always have the cool (and incredibly useless) gadgets in their possession. Ball retrieving devices, yardage telescopes, and survival kits are often tucked neatly away in their Budweiser Select golf bag (yeah, the bag is yet another freebie they got from their brother-in-law who won it at dart league).
The Conversation
While I can not prove this fact I am confident there is an unknown, but absolutely quantifiable and scientific, ratio to how bad a golfer plays that is directly proportional to his I.Q. The worse the player, the worse the conversation you will need to endure through a grueling 18 holes. For a player that consistently scores higher than 100 (more than 30 shots higher than the course predicts a player a should shoot) odds are he is discussing NASCAR and the arm wrestling contests between he and his supervisor at the tattoo parlor.
Is the picture getting clearer now?
But, let’s not forget about the most important and telling attribute of the true hack…
The Game
Well, here is the true pinnacle (Get it? Pinnacle! Nevermind, you are probably a hack too!) of the problem. The public course protagonist in this fictional tale based on true events, is simply, just…AWFUL.
The swing is the equivalent of a sugar-high, blind-folded 6 year old waiving at a candy filled piñata.
The contact is more depressing than a Catholic Junior High School Dance.
The follow through is like that of a murder-weapon-hiding cop.
As far as putting, you might as well hand him a spade shovel or a sledgehammer; would not make a difference.
So, what can I tell you?
This article is not an attack on amateur golfers – I am one.
This is not some elitist country club snob spewing his opinions at the masses – I hate those guys.
I am the everyday golfer, but that does not mean that a large majority of the hackers do not annoy me; you do.
Look, I do not pretend to be Jack Nicholson…or is it Phil Micklaus? Or …ah well….what does it matter? And while I am not God’s gift to golf, I am….somebody. (Sorry, couldn’t come up with anything better there).
Don't forget to catch C.I.B.F. on Patch, http://northandover.patch.com
and follow us on Facebook, search, Can I Be Frank?
This brings me to the point.
When I have the time to get out on the links, I want maximize my fun. In a perfect world, I have three great friends playing along side of me rounding out the foursome. However, many times only one or two of your compadres are available to join you on the course.
And herein lies the danger.
For you non-golfers, there is an unwritten rule that applies to groups less than four. Most golf courses, both public and private, prefer (dare I say demand) foursomes whenever possible to keep the pace of play moving and eliminate excess groups. Therefore, if you only have two guys in your group, golf course personnel do their best to pair you up with another two. Follow me?
Now, if you belong to a private club then this practice is somewhat less painful. Typically, you will be somewhat acquainted with your new playing partners and you can still have a pleasant round.
However, for the public course hackers, it is like a ‘buyer beware’ sticker for the golf world. Regardless of skill, personality, color, religion or creed you can be paired with ANYONE. And, frankly, I usually hate these people for a number of reasons.
Here is why…
A public golf course is, oftentimes, the ‘Village of the Damned’ for amateur players. Rules, restrictions and etiquette are frequently thrown out the window in the name of “everybody should have the privilege to play golf”. You know what? No, not everybody should.
While I am not trying to profile here, public links players can often be weekend warriors that march out every Saturday or Sunday to pound the living bejesus out of the ball, not to mention Mother Nature.
Their skill level is usually a C-.
Their grasp of the rules and regulations borders on criminal negligence.
Their respect for course property is like a vandal in heat.
Getting the picture so far?
Here is a visual in case you still can’t quite understand…
The Attire
Imagine two forty-something year old guys. Each dressed in a one-size-too-small golf shirt with a coffee/spaghetti sauce/blood stain on the front of it, a pair of cut off ‘jhorts’ (READ: jhorts= jean shorts), and some old school 1980s Spot Bilt coaches shoes that serve as a substitute for spikes. Odds are they have on some flimsy visor that was given to them for free that reads, “My Favorite Hole is the 19th!”
The Equipment
Golf rules clearly state that a player can have no more that 14 clubs in his/her bag. The weekend hack-attack usually has around 18. The mix of ‘weapons’ typically consists of a miniature golf putter he stole during his kid’s field trip to Canobie Lake, a set of irons that started rusting during the Clinton administration and, amazingly, a brand new driver (which he probably won in the office raffle). Also, these types always have the cool (and incredibly useless) gadgets in their possession. Ball retrieving devices, yardage telescopes, and survival kits are often tucked neatly away in their Budweiser Select golf bag (yeah, the bag is yet another freebie they got from their brother-in-law who won it at dart league).
The Conversation
While I can not prove this fact I am confident there is an unknown, but absolutely quantifiable and scientific, ratio to how bad a golfer plays that is directly proportional to his I.Q. The worse the player, the worse the conversation you will need to endure through a grueling 18 holes. For a player that consistently scores higher than 100 (more than 30 shots higher than the course predicts a player a should shoot) odds are he is discussing NASCAR and the arm wrestling contests between he and his supervisor at the tattoo parlor.
Is the picture getting clearer now?
But, let’s not forget about the most important and telling attribute of the true hack…
The Game
Well, here is the true pinnacle (Get it? Pinnacle! Nevermind, you are probably a hack too!) of the problem. The public course protagonist in this fictional tale based on true events, is simply, just…AWFUL.
The swing is the equivalent of a sugar-high, blind-folded 6 year old waiving at a candy filled piñata.
The contact is more depressing than a Catholic Junior High School Dance.
The follow through is like that of a murder-weapon-hiding cop.
As far as putting, you might as well hand him a spade shovel or a sledgehammer; would not make a difference.
So, what can I tell you?
This article is not an attack on amateur golfers – I am one.
This is not some elitist country club snob spewing his opinions at the masses – I hate those guys.
I am the everyday golfer, but that does not mean that a large majority of the hackers do not annoy me; you do.
Look, I do not pretend to be Jack Nicholson…or is it Phil Micklaus? Or …ah well….what does it matter? And while I am not God’s gift to golf, I am….somebody. (Sorry, couldn’t come up with anything better there).
Don't forget to catch C.I.B.F. on Patch, http://northandover.patch.com
and follow us on Facebook, search, Can I Be Frank?
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