Monday, December 12, 2016
If there were ever a night for Paul D. Camp Dropouts to tear open Reese's Pieces packets of redemption, an "80s Reload" theme on July 18, 2016, seemed like the sweet actualization of a "Weird Science" hypothesis. Hosted by The Baron's Pub and again backed by Suffolk Public Library, the Reagan/Bush-era topics would tilt heavily toward the "right" platforms of gaming consoles, athletic endeavors and eccentric entertainers. As children of the ColecoVision who were fascinated by a near-exact translation of Donkey Kong, awed by Walter Payton's eventual shuffle to a Super Bowl ring and amused at Rockwell's phony British accent, Hoyt and I would be main handlers of the pop culture-laced pigskin. Two hours before kickoff, a serious injury report was sent via modern telegram. Our dependable running back would be sidelined by an unexpected workload. This gave me a small window to find a replacement for the deeply apologetic Hoyt on the waiver wire. Desperation forced negotiations with a millennial employee of Starbucks and a baby boomer funeral director. When contract details stalled during the 11th hour, I had to assume full captaincy and break the news to Beverley and Dave. The two 1960s graduates, while not necessarily lead foots, would not be scoring many touchdowns with post-AFL rules in place. A Chuck E. Cheese's ceremonial token flip turned up rat tails and commenced game play.
First music video aired on MTV? Rap song by the Chicago Bears? LL Cool J, Beastie Boys and Public Enemy's record label? Arcade game inspired by M.C. Escher? Those were the soft triggers from emcee Angela Martin in the A-block. Most of the nine teams absorbed Nerf bullets and prepped themselves for harder shots. First guard in 23 years to be named NBA MVP in 1987? Electronic board game targeted to teenage girls that included paper money, credit cards and an ATM? Hank Williams, Jr. anthem which pined, "Nobody wants to get drunk and get loud/Everybody just wants to go home"? We sustained direct hits to our score sheet with erroneous replies. Board game that promised: "You do not have to be Rembrandt ... stick figures and squiggly lines will do just fine"? Beverley drew a lovely check mark with her submission. What nation boycotted the 1980 Winter Olympics after they were told to change its flag and anthem to accommodate China? David exuberantly torched the cauldron and maintained our lead. SEC running back who was MVP of the 1983 Sugar Bowl, 1984 Liberty Bowl and 1986 Cotton Bowl? British band who sang "Ghost Town" and appeared on the soundtrack of 1984's "Sixteen Candles"? Gunther knew the footballer and thought he was special by being the only contestant to blow out the fiery cake in one puff. Going into the betting phase, Paul D. Camp Dropouts and Thundercats Are Go! stood apart from the other seven rosters. Would our minimal edge in regulation be enough to bite into a Baron Burger-shaped award?
With the song "Break It Up" in 1987, what Olympic track star leaped into the world of music videos wearing only a very tight spandex workout suit? Hint: In the 1990s, he butchered "The Star-Spangled Banner" at an NBA game. I'll never forget Charley Steiner's fit of uncontrollable laughter when reacting to the interpretation on ESPN. ("Written by Francis Scott Off-Key," indeed!) Both major contenders passed their batons to Angela and awaited the final tallies. Because of an inexplicable blunder where I risked only 18 or so chips, we pulled up lame just before being the first team to break the tape. Thundercats Are Go! doubled their dowry and captured the championship in come-from-behind fashion. "YOU SHOULD HAVE BET IT ALL!" Angela bellowed at me. I'm almost certain Hoyt would've joined her in the coarse chorus. This choke job gripped far tighter than the earlier mishap at Derl'z. I should've never assumed that our primary challenger's sports knowledge wasn't up to snuff. The John McEnroe in me wanted to rip our $10 runner-up certificate in 10,000 pieces and scatter the shavings across Howard Mast Tennis Center's weather-beaten courts. However, a Stefan Edberg-esque transformation took hold and I calmly exchanged warm thoughts with organizers and opponents alike. Carelessness aside, the "80s Reload" was yet another tremendous happening from the Suffolk Public Library's out-and-about itinerary.
Beverley and I finished in fifth-place at the Pub Trivia Night's Horror Edition on October 24, 2016. The Droogs dominated the proceedings and collected $25 from Derl'z. After the slaughter, Brandon and Henry offered us their meal ticket. Were we stupid enough to kindly decline the undeserved prize? Don't bet on it.
Monday, December 5, 2016
|Photo by Charles PTown|
Six weeks later, I bettered the initial record by one stroke on the same course facing Virginia Beach Blvd. The 28 was made possible with a lucky bank off the back rail that cupped for an 18th-hole ace. I exchanged numerous high-fives with the family of five who had kindly let me play ahead of them. Never again would I match these accomplishments, for the Putt-Putt franchise decided to abandon its three Tidewater Virginia spots without so much as a thunderstorm warning from its famed Buster Ball mascot. Since I only adhered to the standards set by the Professional Putters of America (PPA) on official layouts, my miniature golf era came to an abrupt end. No more conversations with fellow enthusiast Keith while he refreshed his Thermos with vodka and Diet Dr. Pepper. No more dreams of moving into a house directly across the street from Aragona Village's convenient setup. No more losing ten-shot leads via one-hole playoffs in tourneys. No more challenging employees to try their hands at impossible-to-ace maze holes within striking distance from the VB Oceanfront. No more penciling the alter-ego John Daly, Jr. on countless scorecards. Like a dusty relic in a forgotten museum, my once-trusty putter sat untouched in a dark closet corner for nearly fifteen years.
While checking out yet another 30-count CD stack from Chesapeake Central Library's phenomenal music inventory, I took note of a curious flyer for the Chesapeake Masters event that would be held on said premises come March 12, 2016. Quoting the leaflet: "A challenging 18-hole indoor golf tournament benefiting the Smart Start Chesapeake Early Literacy Project ... which funds 2,500 literacy programs for 50,000 kids in Chesapeake." Rather than participating in the main fundraiser replete with an impressive cast of Chesapeake-linked celebrities, I opted for an earlier open-play exhibition amongst unknown duffers accompanied by their guardian caddies. Despite terminal delays brought upon by dozens of dipsticks lacking proper etiquette and forbidding smaller groups to skip ahead in line, I managed to squeeze four competitive rounds and one practice session in the allotted frame. Did I retain enough course knowledge from my stint at the Military Circle complex to make a serious run at a green book jacket and raise my arms in a 21-putt salute? Was my bad judgment and worse behavior more embarrassing than John Daly's freakish trousers? Did I go AWOL in Aragona Village courtesy of a "rented" bookmobile? It's time to tee off.
The opening chapter's front nine stained its pages with four unforgivable bogeys amid routine pars. A deceptively benign butterfly-and-flower arrangement should've attracted sweet chirps from beautiful birdies, but the trash created by repeated misreads made unexpected meals for hungry vultures. The surveyor loop measured its gimme putt several inches too far. Bowling pins strewn about the surface yielded multiple open frames. Owls on logs disturbed the calmness by wildly hooting during ball strikes. Holes 10-18 were far more forgiving. An upstairs-to-downstairs lane gifted aces to all contestants. Green shamrocks and wrapped candies treated would-be Rory McIlroys to red figures. Creepy zombies greeted Arnold Palmer's ghost after a Pennzoil-embossed orb quickly went into hiding. The ace down an oval stretch rounded out a respectable two-over score of 64.
Taking a break at the water fountain, I envisioned going lower in the final 54 holes. The double-bogey on #9 had been the only instance close to a disastrous blowup. If I could somehow tame the owls, perhaps I'd have a decent chance to fire an under-60 round. Withdrawing immediately from the Chesapeake Masters would've been the wisest move. Respective marks of 74, 70 and 67 translated into the salty tongue of 25-over par. Those damn hooters were solely responsible for an out-of-bounds stroke that shoved an egregious eight into the narrow potty mouth. An unsecured railing on the rubber-duck perch sent two balls off the grid for terrible triples. The four-aisle hole with a (Great) bridge lift stalled traffic for inches and nixed every attempted crossing. Once-friendly glamour bears morphed into Jack Nicklaus looking for golden hash browns at an empty buffet table. Among the few highlights in the latter stages were "sparing" the bowling section, tucking tough pars into the T-shirt area and breaking into the gated community through the unlocked slither.
My results in Chesapeake might've mirrored the Mark Twain rub about golf being "a good walk spoiled," but I'm already awaiting the announcement for next year's gathering. Should I erupt into a series of John Daly-esque tirades, it won't necessarily be to my detriment. Bad sports are often the stuff of great literature.