Ooh…aah.
Bostonians at the Esplanade on Saturday night must have been delighted with the pyrotechnics display and musical performances.
I didn’t attend the Independence Day extravaganza (saw Neil Diamond last summer—so good, so good at Fenway) and won’t be playing in AMHLer Dana Salvo’s annual golf event (Humpty Dumpty (Sports) Hernia won’t cooperate). But because summer is when fireworks, golf, hockey (and donuts) commingle, I’ve been thinking about a Thursday morning four years ago.
After an early morning hockey game, a half dozen or so AMHLers left Valley Sports Arena. With leftover donut holes, we drove west to the Woods of Westminster.
Chris “Donut Boy” Howell, Doug “Wight, Not Weight” and I warmed up by teeing off on Powdered Cake Munchkins.
Whoosh…pfft. Ooh…aah.
We watched the donut holes disintegrate, the white powder flashing and then quickly dissipating. A Weeping Willow (pictured above) over a green esplanade.
The real golf balls? I launched a few duds into the trees. But I fired off a few good shots, too. On the last hole, I wound up for my last drive, the grand finale.
Whoosh…thwap.
Like a rocket, the ball shot off the tee.
Ooh…aah.
Straight and nearly true, the shot wowed the crowd.
Woppita woppita woppita.
The club’s head, however, had struck the ball, dislodged itself from the shaft and made a feeble attempt to chase the ball.
I wondered if Howell would be upset (I don’t have my own clubs and was too cheap to rent them, so I borrowed whatever I needed from Donut Boy’s golf bag.)
Wight and Howell were howling with laughter though. Then Donut Boy told me he didn’t use that club anyway.
To this day, the dislocated club’s head still rolls around the bed of Howell’s pickup truck; Donut Boy uses the former Munchkin-whacker as a makeshift GasBuddy, wedging the wood in the pump’s handle.
Ooh…aah…the spectacular memories will live on…at the gas station, on the links, and at the rink.
Bostonians at the Esplanade on Saturday night must have been delighted with the pyrotechnics display and musical performances.
I didn’t attend the Independence Day extravaganza (saw Neil Diamond last summer—so good, so good at Fenway) and won’t be playing in AMHLer Dana Salvo’s annual golf event (Humpty Dumpty (Sports) Hernia won’t cooperate). But because summer is when fireworks, golf, hockey (and donuts) commingle, I’ve been thinking about a Thursday morning four years ago.
After an early morning hockey game, a half dozen or so AMHLers left Valley Sports Arena. With leftover donut holes, we drove west to the Woods of Westminster.
Chris “Donut Boy” Howell, Doug “Wight, Not Weight” and I warmed up by teeing off on Powdered Cake Munchkins.
Whoosh…pfft. Ooh…aah.
We watched the donut holes disintegrate, the white powder flashing and then quickly dissipating. A Weeping Willow (pictured above) over a green esplanade.
The real golf balls? I launched a few duds into the trees. But I fired off a few good shots, too. On the last hole, I wound up for my last drive, the grand finale.
Whoosh…thwap.
Like a rocket, the ball shot off the tee.
Ooh…aah.
Straight and nearly true, the shot wowed the crowd.
Woppita woppita woppita.
The club’s head, however, had struck the ball, dislodged itself from the shaft and made a feeble attempt to chase the ball.
I wondered if Howell would be upset (I don’t have my own clubs and was too cheap to rent them, so I borrowed whatever I needed from Donut Boy’s golf bag.)
Wight and Howell were howling with laughter though. Then Donut Boy told me he didn’t use that club anyway.
To this day, the dislocated club’s head still rolls around the bed of Howell’s pickup truck; Donut Boy uses the former Munchkin-whacker as a makeshift GasBuddy, wedging the wood in the pump’s handle.
Ooh…aah…the spectacular memories will live on…at the gas station, on the links, and at the rink.
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