They hammed and egged pretty good for a bunch of trick-kneed has-beens.
Granted, playing off the forward tees was a boon to three of them who are decades past qualifying for AARP membership, and the youngest member of their foursome was long by his ownself, a threat to take home the long drive prize from the men's tees if he could only keep it in the fairway on 14. When he did just that they had a short iron into the par five, and with four putts at it made their third eagle of the day.
After one of them snaked in a 60-footer for birdie on their last hole they carded up a smooth-running 56. Sixteen under par often holds up, even in your member-guest, buy-your-mulligans, hit-and-giggle rural country club events. But even as they rode in they knew they were playing for second place.
And sure enough, after 30 minutes in the clubhouse, the last and final group strode in--the Dentist's team, comprised of the Dentist, who looks exactly like whatever your mental image of a small-town middle-aged dentist prosperous enough to own his own Piper Cub may be; a 6-foot-3 inch Swede in a backwards Billie Eilish trucker cap and skin-tight J. Lindeberg golf shirt who looks like Thor's hipster cousin; a pudgy 13-year-old cross-eyed Adderall addict in dirty GWAR T-shirt who everyone assumes is the Dentist's son or nephew, and a 90-year-old Carmelite nun in regulation habit, right down to her hemp sandals.
Someone among the Milwaukee's Best-sucking throng of about 80 contestants assembled to watch the posting of the scores has to ask.
"How did you hit them, Dentist?"
At the question, Dentist's jowls drop like a coyote just learning about gravity.
"Ah, not so good," he hangdogs, scraping the floor with the toe of his FootJoy. "OK. Missed a few putts. Put us down for 52."
At that, the crowd groans collectively, but not in an overtly performative way.
They groan resignedly, like how you groan when your co-worker who is always with the puns drops another one in the quarterly sales meeting with the overboss from regional headquarters. (And now the overboss is going to go back to his regional headquarters and remind the C-suite why they refer to your branch as "the island of misfit toys.")
They groan a sort of groan that is more sensed than heard, like a foreshock of the coming big one. The sort of groan that, while unmistakable in its meaning, is missable by those happy souls born without either conscience or self-awareness.
"Pencil-whipped again, boys," one of the 56ers says to no one in particular.
"Nothing surprising about that," another one of the losers says, his eyes straight ahead.
"You'd think Sister would keep him honest," the third one says.
"It's just not fair she gets to hit off the silver tees," the fourth chimes in. "She's as long as Dentist, not that he's Mike Souchak."
"I don't think she's complicit," the first one says in turn. "Dentist is in charge of the scorecard. Takes it seriously, keeps it in one of those leather yardage book wallets and carries it around in his back pocket. He just scribbles down what he wants and announces the tally to them at the end. I think the idea is to allow his partners to preserve plausible deniability "
"I think the Beavis Butt-head-looking punk is their comms guy. No doubt he's got a confederate in the clubhouse, texting out the target number to them in exchange for a rainbow fentanyl or a Baja Blast Mountain Dew."
"Maybe. He's family, I think."
"Is he? I heard he was just some vampire kid the Dentist took in to do odd jobs around the house. He fell off a truck and hit his head. He ain't never been to school."
They all look at him.
"What I heard. You know, rumor. Don't make it so but it's likelier than that lot shooting 20 under."
"Well, to be fair, Lars can play a bit. He might have been even or better on his own ball."
"He'd be flippin' wedges from where Sister drives it. And she can putt a little too."
"Nine Itch Nails over there is worthless. I saw him playing with bugs and bottle caps on the putting green the other day. I think he ate one or the other. Every see him swing a seven-iron? Got his hands all down the steel like Campy Campaneris."
"He ain't Harry Vardon, for sure."
"More like Jack Neckless."
"Hold on now. Kid can't help how he looks. Or who he's kin to."
"Well he sure ain't kin to Rory McIlroy. Now that you mention it, there is a family resemblance to Dentist."
"Who can't play dead in a cowboy movie either."
After that the groan was localized, but clearly audible.
"I will remind you there's a $10 fine for cliché usage around these parts."
"OK, he can't play John Cage's '4'33.' Or even to that vanity nine index he's lugging around."
"Upon further review, I'll allow that. But look who's getting the $250 in shop credit and who's getting a sleeve of Vice Pro Drip Limes."
"That's a fair point. History will record that he won again, continuing his string of dominance. Dentist was surely the greatest scramble team organizer in central Arkansas in the first quarter of the 21st century. That trophy looks heavy. Think he needs some help getting it out to his Escalade?"
"Hell, he's got Lars on retainer."
"I kind of like the second-place trophy. It's understated. Probably won't poke anyone's eye out."
"I agree; aesthetically it's a more pleasing piece of hardware. It's kind of cute. Fits in well with all the participation trophies they've been handing out."
"Sure like to see Dentist not be the last group in sometime."
"I hear they hit him with a two-shot slow play penalty over in Morrilton."
"The tournament where they give away all that meat?"
"Nah, just the usual scrip. Those old boys would have strung him up if he'd tried to make off with a Petit Jean Peppered Bone-in. Still won though. By two shots."
"Serves those Morrilton hippies right. Getting all officious and stuff. You think they rushed ol' Kim Jong-Il when he was on his way to that 34 at Pyongyang Golf Club? Nah, Dear Leader took his time and racked up five holes in one."
"Not to go all Snopes.com on you, but there was a writer for Golf magazine who later figured out that there weren't five holes-in-one in that round; the scorekeeper was just marking down the number of strokes over par and the North Korean flacks read the scorecard wrong; a 'one' meant one over par, not an ace."
"So Kim probably shot 34 over, not 38 under?"
"Yeah, but were you going to tell him that?"
"Give Dentist five strokes aside, maybe he'd give Kim a match."
"Kim's dead, pard."
"OK. Four a side then."
Philip Martin is a columnist and critic for the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. Email him at [email protected].