This Weekend, I Defend My Title At The Member-Guest

It's the Member-Guest this weekend, folks. What a relief to type this rather than tell you aloud, as just thinking of it has driven every ounce of moisture from my mouth. It's a cocktail of fear, excitement, lust, and eternally-burning competitive hate that has kept me from sleep since Monday. 

The stakes couldn't be higher. I am the defending champion, having won in thrilling fashion last year with my partner Bo. This Bo is not to be confused with Lil Sasquatch's Bo, whom you may know if you listen to Son of a Boy Dad. We both have a Bo, and there is no reason to compare them for there is no competition for best Bo. I like both Bos. 

Last year, I clinched victory with a sliding eight-footer in bare feet. Did I need to make the putt? No, we could have two-putted for the win. But I was never going to miss, knowing I could misrepresent the footage as the decisive moment, carried home on my shoulders. Did my Bo do the vast majority of the work to get us there? Historians debate, then arrive at yes. But I choose to be the hero of my own story. 

Walking off the green, I was blasted with champagne. In wet white pants, I worried I might upset the family atmosphere. But nobody cared. Champions are typically given more leash when it comes to inappropriate attire. 

These are the moments you dream of as a recreational golfer. To have your name on the wall in the locker room, to assemble a glass case with many shelves for trophies for surely this is only the beginning of a later-life amassing of silver cups and crystal whiskey decanters bearing names and dates to immortalize your achievements; knowing well that the case you purchased and hired a task rabbit to assemble now looks entirely too large for the one trophy you have, and if you don't win others, it will seem more like a sad memorial to a lost family member who adored golf. 

So here we are. We're the low team in the top flight, so we'll be getting strokes off everyone we play, but they'll be much better than we are. I'm not sure if that's a good place to be in. I suspect I'd rather be in the middle of the pack of a lower flight. The order is tall, and perfection will be needed to find ourselves vying for the shootout on Saturday. But as they say, golf is a fickle game. Especially when you peer-pressure your opponents into going fireball nip for nip with you, having swapped your nips for apple juice, watching as they stumble, chunk, and slur their way to ignominious doubles while your swing miraculously improves. 

Five matches await. Five nine-hole rounds to determine a flight winner who will ascend to the shootout, where anything can happen. The field is stacked, the high noons are on ice, and I am prepared for two outcomes: either we will bear up with pride and dignity, removing hats to shake hands after hard-fought matches with generous putts conceded and friendships solidified; or we will run into buzzsaws of plus-handicappers who demand to see testy three-footers that will lip out to silence, affirming their decision not to give the putt, inserting venom into our hearts, and ruining the entire weekend. 

In that case, we turn to drink. Lots of it. Either way, I can't fucking wait. 

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