CAPTAIN'S CHOICE

There it was at the club! A sign on the door.
A Captain's Choice match! Bring forth your best four.
I studied on this. I started to scheme.
I would assemble golf's most perfect team.

First, I found a lumberjack! He could swing
Without thinking of three hundred things.
"This club is your ax. Keep your mind free.
"You'll be the guy I'll employ on the tee."

Next came a dancer with flawless rhythm.
I knew at a glance I could win with him.
My instructions to him? "Tempo, my friend.
Repeat this motion again and again."

A short game! That's it! That's all there was left.
So I snagged an Ichiban Steakhouse chef.
"The wedge is your knife, the ball is the meat.
The flag is the dish. Just add forty feet!"

Me? I'll ply tools and putt like the devil
I'll use a plumb and a carpenter's level!
And so there I had it, golf's matchless mix:
Ah, Science and Art! Pure brawn and slick tricks.

At the club the boys still say to this day.
Never a front nine was played quite this way.
Mighty arms off the tee! A fairway Astaire!
While chip shots like brush strokes arced in the air.

And I? I, magnificent on the green.
No convex to vexing. No angle too keen.
We strode like Titans. A foursome to fear.
The trophy? It's ours! This game is small beer.

I should have seen it, that ominous cloud
That shadows a golfer who waxes too proud.
And when at the turn the teams doubled their bets.
They knew the Golf Gods weren't through with me yet.

The tenth tee! Oh, my fortunes went wacky.
The chef uncorked a bottle of Sake.
He passed it around! Boys, it just isn't nice
Too witness the fruits of a wine made of rice.

Like that, the lumberjack's eyes turned bleary.
He started spouting Euclidian theory.
The dancer stripped to a black leotard.
He hugged the lumberjack a wee bit too hard.

The chef broke his nose in a stunt with a rake.
The lumberjack drove his cart in the lake.
It floated a moment, then sank, bubbling south.
The dancer dove in to give mouth to mouth.

The chef pulled a cleaver. He sliced my twine.
I now had a plumb with little pieces of line.
The chef staggered away and I was left solo.
Twenty five handicap with nine holes to go.

I tell ya', boys, it's not a good omen.
To survey your card and spy nine snowmen.
Back at the club I could not cover my bets.
They took my wallet. They indentured the rest.

And that's how I lived 18 lives in one day.
The first nine were fine, the last... not okay.
The sad tale is mine, boys. Now I must go.
I've got shoes to shine and a fairway to mow.

-- Steve Stinson