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May 10, 2006 |
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Guy trip. Two weeks ago the “Geezer Golfers” packed the sticks and headed to the heart of Dixie and Alabama’s Robert Trent Jones Golf Trail. Our wives thought it sounded like a wonderful idea. And immediately planned a trip of their own. To Boston. So Big Gear Bob, Chucky, Big Poolie and I headed out to golf the breadth and width of Alabama. The wives, you know how wives are, were less than confident in our ability to follow a roadmap from Gadsden to Prattville let alone navigate Birmingham. How wrong they were. About Alabama. Denver was a different story. The night before our flight South was spent shivering in the cold of a Rockies game. The temperature, about right for a Bronco’s/Raiders Monday night game in late November, was quite wrong for April baseball. Eight innings provided all the cold our crew could handle and a unanimous vote decided on heading back to warmth and a TV finish. “Hold on” said Big Poolie, “Don’t leave ‘til I hit the men’s room.” So we remaining three sat, teeth chattering, through both halves of the 8th inning. No Poolie. Not to worry, I’ve been hanging with my Belgian friend for over forty years and, like a bad penny, he always turns up. But, while the 9th saw the Rox rally to tie the game, we didn’t see the Poolieman. It was cell phone time. The missing member of our group, secure in the knowledge he’d done nothing wrong, answered “Just where in the hell are you guys? “No, that is not the question” was the reply, “The three of us know where we are, freezing our butts off waiting for you the Rockies game. The real question is, where are you?” “Hold on” he replied, “I can’t read street signs without my glasses.” “Street signs? How does anyone head for the Coors Field men’s room and thirty minutes later need street signs to determine their location?” “Well” detailed the Pooliedude, “I couldn’t find anyone so figured you left. Maybe I turned the wrong way. Anyway I’m at 17th and Curtis.” Not only was he MIA from Coors but lost and standing one block east and five blocks south of where he was supposed to spend the night. Detailed directions were given to the 16th street mall. It was a whole block away. According to Poolie when he arrived at the corner of Curtis and downtown Denver’s walking mall, he was faced with the quandary of what direction to take. Having never been a person who believed in exercise for exercise’s sake and not wanting to stroll a single extra step, the Poolieperson inquired of the first live body he saw; it happened to be a cowboy perched in the pilot’s seat of a horse-drawn carriage, “Where’s Laramie?” “Wyoming” said the cowboy. “Too far,” says Big Poolie, “I’m supposed to be at 16th and Laramie.” “Maybe you mean 16th and Larimer,” said the cowboy. “Whatever” said Poolie, a man not known as a slave to either details or correct names. “Hop in” says the Cowboy, “I’m heading that direction”. And so, as we three left behind musketeers walked up to the door of our home away from home for the night, who greets us but Big Poolie riding in the back of a horse drawn carriage. “Howdy boys” comes the greeting. “How was the baseball game?” Long ago I learned it’s Big Poolie’s world but life is anything but dull for we spectators. |
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