Those who write personal opinion columns for a living occasionally feel the need to try and explain the unexplainable and bizarre, even when it involves something as seemingly innocuous as determined clothing with a mind of its own.
So please bear with me today as I can't help but relate the strange but true tale of Max Wright's obstinate pants.
There the three of us stood, waiting to tee off at the annual North Arkansas Regional Medical Center Foundation golf tournament in Harrison. Courtney Garland and I had teamed up yet again with the indomitable Mr. Wright, a generous Harrison businessman and jovial big man with a ready laugh who genuinely cares about most people he encounters.
The asphalt lot around the Harrison Country Club was teeming with male and female golfers who had come to support this annual event benefiting the medical center. And Max was among the contributors, as he routinely is with most worthwhile community causes.
But it's not the man's generosity or good nature that captured my attention on this first dry day after a week of continuous showers. It also wasn't about his big laugh or overall good nature.
No, today, the story for me was Max's astounding inability to keep seemingly ordinary slacks from continually slipping to his knees. Yes, you read that right. Max's cotton pants seemed, well, darned near possessed.
He blamed the rather amazing problem on an ample girth with smaller hips. But that's true with lots of men when they reach 70, yet they maintain control of their britches. God knows he was a far better authority on his wardrobe malfunctions than me.
I do know that before we'd even started our round, Max found himself trying to catch his golf bag from falling from the golf cart at the very moment his pants were slipping from his hips to below his knees, exposing everything in between. And, of course, lots of folks were milling all around him. "I suddenly found myself sorta trapped between a rock and a hard place," he said laughing. "Save my clubs or lift my pants. Thank God a friend nearby saw what was happening and came to my rescue."
Max made it clear his savior grabbed for the clubs.
Once the clubs and britches were secured, we rolled out onto the course along with a competing team of three friendly foes named Jeff, Brent and Brad. Thankfully Max had survived the humiliation of standing half-naked at the clubhouse in front of so many friends and fellow golfers.
Yet within a hole or two, sure enough, Max's pants with a mind of their own began heading south again ... and rapidly. He dropped his club and began grabbing for them. "The darned things just won't stay up," he said with a chuckle. "Nothing I do seems to help."
By the end of nine holes, Max found himself snatching wildly at the knees several times after striking both tee and approach shots. I believe they even came down after one putt. These cream-colored pants clearly had no shame. By now, the five others comprising our sixsome had chosen to simply join in this odd festivity that I've since come to know as "The Mysterious Day of Max Wright's Petulant Pants."
The group was amazed that one pair of pants could sprint their way to freedom so often.
As the day wore on, Max continued tightening the belt on his slacks until his face reflected discomfort. The problem finally appeared to ease somewhat. But, like a roller coaster, it was only the rise before the final, steepest drop.
On our 15th hole of the day came what for me was the coup-de-golf. Max had turned to replace a driver in his bag when there the blasted things went again. This time clean to his ankles. And in full view of a dozen homes framing the course. Max grabbed with both hands and tried his best to once again pull them back to his waist. Standing beside him, I'd politely offered to hold his club.
But by this time, poor Max was darned near in full Monty on the very visible course while also struggling to get his shirt tucked back inside. It wouldn't have surprised me if he'd shucked them altogether and finished in relative peace.
What had to have been the longest round of Max Wright's seven decades on earth mercifully ended as the sun was dropping low and he could finally return to the shelter of his front seat. We won nothing that afternoon but some valuable and unique memories.
Courtney and I (and the other team members who'd borne witness to the mysterious phenomenon of Max's falling pants) suggested that perhaps we might pitch in for our friend on his birthday so that next year we could have a neatly tailored pair of stretchy, rubberesque slacks that would fit much like a wetsuit. Either that, or Max might consider donning two pair of pants.
One thing's for certain, if you are fortunate enough to know good-sport Max Wright, who so readily belly laughs at himself, you can't help but also love him, and maybe even his mystically petulant pants.
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Mike Masterson's column appears regularly in the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. Email him at [email protected].
Editorial on 06/06/2015